The Chrysalis
by HStorm
Summary: After the end of the fourth season of the Dungeon, Hordriss makes Treguard a truly explosive offer, one that could change Knightmare Castle, and the nature of its conflicts, forever more.
1. The Chrysalis Prologue

THE CHRYSALIS  
PROLOGUE  
  
"To win a war with an enemy, one must first win a war with oneself."  
- Toldriss the Enchanter, 704 AD.  
  
Treguard had had little choice but to open the Knightmare Challenge  
to people of almost any age, and even from different times. The  
Gruagach's original idea behind the Challenge had been to lure the few  
virtuous men of the Norman-Angevin dominion on what they thought would  
be an honourable test of their gifts as warriors, but which in truth  
would end in their certain deaths, thus gradually bringing an end to  
the Age of Chivalry in England. With Folly's aid, Treguard had defeated  
the demon and banished it from the physical world, allowing Treguard to  
reclaim the Castle of his birthright and become the Dungeon Master.  
From there Treguard was able to turn the false image of the honourable  
Challenge into some kind of reality, by making it a proving ground for  
honest warriors to perhaps replace the valiant knights the Gruagach had  
slain.  
With the rebirth of Good within the Dungeon, the elemental druid-  
wizard Merlin had been free to re-emerge in the physical world he had  
once been banished from by King Arthur's sister, the Sorceress Morgana  
le Fay. Merlin took up residence within the obscure levels of the  
Castle itself, and with his help all appeared to be going well.  
Although no one else appeared to be able to actually Master the  
Dungeon, with Merlin's power it was now possible to revive them beyond  
the walls, so that at least they could carry on doing good deeds in the  
real world.  
Treguard found that he was even enjoying being a Dungeon Master, and  
even the failure of quests didn't seem to bother him - at the very  
least they appealed to his sense of humour.  
But then darkness re-emerged, and from a most unexpected source. At  
some point, Treguard couldn't say when, he couldn't say why, something  
happened to Merlin. It was as though life in the Dungeon was unhinging  
him. On the second level of the Dungeon he was still the Merlin that  
Treguard knew and trusted. A bit forgetful all of a sudden, some of the  
old sharpness of his mind seemed to have disappeared, the crafty  
mischief for which he had always been rightly famous had almost  
dissolved, but the prevailing goodness and wisdom in him were there.  
Whenever he entered the third level though, it all changed. The all-  
encompassing darkness of Level Three seemed to take hold of him and he  
would become, well, another person. Here the craftiness would return,  
but the morals that had always tempered it now seemed to be the element  
in his persona that had dissolved. He wasn't just mischievous, he  
became irritable, even hostile. At first Treguard just ignored it,  
assumed it was nothing more than the irascibility of advanced  
(incredibly advanced) age and a man set in his ways.  
But as the weeks passed the problems got worse and worse. When on  
Level Two, Merlin's forgetfulness became increasingly pronounced and  
alarming, to the point when on one occasion he actually forgot that he  
was holding onto his favourite amulet, the Talisman of Fortune, and  
absently dropped it into a cauldron of gravewert that he was boiling up  
to develop into a reconstruction spell. To Merlin's horror, within  
seconds the Talisman dissolved from its physical form into three  
fragments of magical power that disappeared and scattered into  
different parts of the Dungeon, and it was several years before it  
would be retrieved for him by a Dungeoneer.  
On the other hand, while on Level Three, Merlin's temper had become  
so erratic that on one occasion he launched a spell of lightning into  
the antechamber to silence Treguard, just for interrupting him. All  
that Treguard had done was to offer him a quick game of chess while  
waiting for the next Dungeoneer to arrive!  
In hindsight, what followed a few days later was perhaps inevitable,  
but one who is in denial about his ailments, and others who simply have  
little knowledge of magic, were blind to it. On one of his ventures  
into Level Three, Merlin suddenly failed to answer Treguard's summons  
to the antechamber for a consultation about a minor matter involving a  
message received from the King. Concerned that something might have  
happened to the sorcerer, Treguard decided to enter the Dungeon in  
person.  
When he reached the Third Level, he found Merlin. And yet not  
Merlin. He was stood in a small courtyard, both his arms spread out  
above his heads, and also reaching down below them. This might sound  
impossible but the sorcerer seemed to be in a flux, almost mutating.  
Merlin appeared to have two heads, four arms, and at least four legs.  
He looked at Treguard with a strange gurgled scream of recognition, the  
only light in his tortured eyes the glimmer of appeal for release from  
his anguish.  
"Hhhgggg-eellllllpp meeee-aaaaggghhh!" the sorcerer managed to cry.  
With one of his flailing arms he managed to point to the dragon-sword,  
Wyrmslayer, which was secured to Treguard's belt. Then Merlin ran a  
finger across his own throat. Treguard knew immediately what Merlin was  
indicating and refused point blank.  
"I'm not going to kill you!" he protested desperately.  
"Pppppllllleeeeeez!" Merlin wailed.  
It took Treguard long moments to finally do as Merlin had begged. In  
the end, the realisation of the unbelievable agony that the sorcerer  
was enduring was too much. Treguard slowly drew Wyrmslayer, took  
position, gripped the hilt so firmly that his knuckles went white,  
screwed his eyelids so tightly closed that they hurt... and struck.  
The blast of power that hit Treguard was so powerful that he was  
thrown against the nearest wall and was out cold for several minutes.  
When at last he came round, he looked up and there followed what must  
have been the earliest instance in history of someone dreaming up the  
idea of stereo. He saw Merlin, alive, reasonably well, standing by the  
exit to the chamber, throwing small bolts of lightning across the  
chamber at Merlin, who was also alive and well and throwing bolts of  
flame across the chamber back at Merlin.  
Treguard looked down, shook his head a couple of times, looked up  
again, and saw that he had not been imagining it - there really were  
two Merlins here. The one throwing flames looked older than ever, his  
beard and hair longer and whiter than ever, his colourful robes more  
bright and eye twisting than ever. The other appeared a little younger,  
without actually appearing young. He was clean-shaven, his robes as  
black as pitch, his face so deathly white it gave Treguard a  
frightening reminder of coming face-to-face with the Gruagach.  
"Quail, you doddering fool!" the lightning-thrower thundered  
(appropriately enough). "Quail at the feet of Mogdred!"  
The older one remained quiet, and continued blocking the bolts and  
hurling balls of flame back at his twin.  
"My mother destroyed you with good reason, Merlin," continued the  
one calling himself Mogdred. "You will go back to the netherworlds you  
belong in. Then I shall live again with your darkest power!"  
"Merlin!" cried Treguard, grasping Wyrmslayer and hauling himself to  
his feet.  
The two sorcerers stopped and looked at him. Treguard held the sword  
up, warningly against either of them stepping toward him.  
The flamethrower nodded quietly. "It is I, Treguard." He gestured at  
his black-robed foe. "It is also him. And yet not him."  
The lightning-thrower looked at Treguard contemptuously. "Do not  
interfere with us, you scrap of festering insignificance!" he growled.  
"This is a matter of the highest magic. You have no place here."  
From this, Treguard had quickly worked out whose side he was on, and  
turned on Mogdred who, realising he was outnumbered, chose to withdraw,  
vanishing to a different chamber of the Level.  
Merlin cast a spell taking himself and Treguard back to the Dungeon  
antechamber where he explained what had happened. Centuries before,  
Morgana le Fay had banished Merlin to the netherworld. Therefore it  
looked as though the King of the Britons, Arthur, would be forced to  
fight not only the Saxon barbarians, but also his evil half-sister and  
her first son Mordred, alone. From the netherworlds, however, Merlin  
had been able to re-enter the world one last time through the landscape  
of people's dreams, and managed to trick Mordred into slaying Morgana.  
Thus both Arthur and Mordred were forced to do battle without their  
respective mentors. It was the final battle for them both, Arthur  
slaying his nephew with the magical might of Excalibur, while Mordred,  
with his last dying action, struck a fatal sword blow to the King's  
skull.  
Mordred's ghostly spirit had sensed the source of the trickery that  
had led him to matricide, and intent on revenge, followed it to the  
netherworlds, where Merlin was waiting for him. The two spirits did  
battle, before Merlin finally defeated Mordred by entrapping his  
essence within his own. There, Mordred's spirit mingled with Merlin's,  
but was incapable of becoming dominant. Thus it became no more than a  
part of the dark side of Merlin's nature.  
When Merlin had re-entered the physical world through the Dungeon of  
Knightmare, Mordred's spirit was reawakened and reinvigorated by the  
cloying vestiges of the Gruagach's evil that still existed in Level  
Three. For months, almost subconsciously, the two spirits within  
Merlin's being resumed their terrible duel. In Levels One and Two,  
where the presence of dark magic was fleeting and weak, Merlin had been  
the stronger. But in Level Three Mordred became the more powerful,  
which was why Merlin had become so malignant there. The two sides of  
his personality slowly became more and more fractured and remote from  
each other. The canny, mischievous side became one with the aggression  
and greed of Mordred, while losing touch with the rest of his mind,  
which was why the Merlin of the upper Levels was becoming so absent-  
minded.  
But the war for control of Merlin was still undecided. Neither one  
was even able to gain the upper hand, let alone defeat the other.  
Therefore Mordred drew Merlin into Level Three, where with remnants of  
the Gruagach's dark magic he attempted the next best thing. He tried to  
physically separate off the evil and good halves of Merlin from each  
other into two separate bodies. Merlin's conscious self finally  
realised what was happening, and tried to stop it, but this was a  
battle that he was losing. When Treguard arrived he'd hoped that the  
Dungeon Master would slay him and at least bring an end to Mordred with  
him. Instead the dragon-blade merely finished the evil deed. It cleaved  
Merlin's soul into two, cut the evil from the good, and they split off  
into separate enchanted forms. Merlin's good side lived on in one,  
while the darker side of Merlin's nature, mingled with Mordred's evil  
and distorted by the Gruagach's power, lived on in the other as  
Mogdred.  
A new evil to control the magic of the Gruagach, a new terror to  
wield the demon's dreadful power. But at least Merlin still existed to  
stand against him within the Dungeon, and with Treguard as Dungeon  
Master, it might be possible to at least keep him contained.  
But then Mogdred left the Dungeon and headed South to meet King  
John. Treguard had been horrified by the stupidity of the King, who,  
doubtless under the influence of the necromancer, proclaimed Mogdred as  
his Governor of the North, and abolished the Knightmare Challenge. It  
was as though the King's desperation to keep the Saxons under his thumb  
had even led him to support a creature that, if it could learn to wield  
its power beyond the Dungeon's walls, would be capable of overthrowing  
the entire world. Mogdred retrurned to the Dungeon days later in malign  
triumph, knowing that his plans would not have to suffer any  
interference from the Normans.  
So with no hope of gaining further help against Mogdred from  
anywhere within England, Treguard followed Merlin's suggestion by  
continuing the Challenge illegally and to look to other worlds, even  
other times, to find help. Unfortunately, too many time zones included  
people who refused to get involved in anything so dangerous - who  
could blame them - or just refused to believe his bizarre declaration  
that he was speaking to them from the Past - again, who could blame  
them? However, he'd eventually found a time centuries into the future  
where technology had advanced so far that adventure in any real sense  
had all but ceased to exist. Unfortunately, the only people he could  
call upon from there were very young indeed, some of them not even  
teenagers, as anybody older he spoke to very wisely spotted the  
terrible danger of getting involved, but small help was better than no  
help. And to be honest, he once again found their bumbling failures  
quite amusing.  
Now, some years later, he was beginning to rethink that mirth. The  
lack of success of these future timers was becoming genuinely worrying.  
Over forty Dungeoneers from the future had entered the Dungeon to this  
point, and so far only three of them had succeeded.  
Now though, in the year 1216, there was a new dawn - the dawn of  
Magna Carta. It offered a new avenue of hope to the naive, but Treguard  
knew full well that the King would not follow through on his promises,  
that Mogdred would thus retain the Governorship, and that it would be  
impossible for Treguard to build the army of Northguards required to  
finally rid himself of the necromancer. He needed help from some other  
source... 


	2. The Chrysalis Part 1

THE CHRYSALIS  
PART I  
  
By nature, mankind had tended to make God in his own image. Whether  
this was born of human arrogance or just the human paranoia of needing  
as many reassuring icons as possible - which is to say, to feel  
worthy of the all-powerful's attention by being as similar to the all-  
powerful as possible - had never been judged with any certainty.  
What was certain was that it would be a sorry omen for all of  
humanity if any God looked anything like as pitiful as John, King of  
England. John, or "Lackland" as he was still cruelly referred to by  
some of his courtiers (though never to his face of course), or  
"Softsword" as he was referred to by many of his other subjects (again  
only while his attention was elsewhere), was large but stocky and  
looked perpetually shaken, as though he'd just completed a three year  
horse-cart ride along the Via Appia, chased by a thousand Turkish  
highwayman in a strong gale. It wasn't that he was ugly or anything, it  
was just that he might as well have been. He was forever staring out at  
the world about him with nervous darting eyes, his mouth pulled  
backward and downward in a drooping frown, his lips wobbling and  
quivering as if his thin beard offered his broad face scant protection  
from the cold.  
He was paranoid. Well, let's not understate things, he was to  
confidence what the Roman Empire had once been to hard work - it just  
didn't go there. No underhand secrets or hidden behaviour, no ulterior  
pattern, no absurd pretence, it just didn't apply when it came to King  
John of the Royal House of Plantagenet. His paranoia was legendary all  
around the Angevin Dominion of France and England.  
Not that it was the sort of legend that the Anglo-Normans wanted.  
They wanted to look to the legends of King Arthur, Alfred of Wessex,  
Edward the Confessor or William the Conqueror for their inspiration,  
for their driving force. (Most of these icons, interestingly enough,  
were not Normans at all - what does that tell us about them that we  
didn't already know?) And some of them, to be fair, had succeeded. For  
instance Richard the First, "Lionheart" as he was proudly proclaimed to  
be around all of Europe for his heroism in the Crusades, was not only a  
mighty King but a brave and pious Christian soldier, or at least that's  
what he'd made damn sure that everyone he fought against believed. All  
right, so he'd butchered three thousand Turkish hostages when he burned  
Acre after they'd dared not to surrender to his army instantaneously.  
No big deal, it was the Lord's work, and at least Richard had done it  
all very gallantly. Yes, he was a hero of the Angevin Empire, even to  
most of the (misinformed) Saxon communities of England.  
Not his younger brother John though. No. Not poor little King John.  
Not poor helpless little King "everybody's-out-to-get-me-so-I-think-  
I'll-execute-the-chef-just-in-case-he-decides-to-poison-my-leg-of-  
horsemeat" John. Pitied by his Father, Henry II, despised by his  
mother, mocked by his elder brothers, including Richard, and hated by  
his subjects. His arrogant oppression of the Anglo-Saxons had made him  
every bit as unpopular with common Englishmen as any of his Norman  
ancestors, while his incompetent loss of the territories of Normandy  
and Anjou had completely destroyed his standing among the Norman barons  
as well.  
Other than that, things had gone swimmingly for him since his  
succession to the throne seventeen years earlier after his brother's  
untimely death at Limoges (when a crossbow wound to the neck turned  
sceptic and took the life of the monarch through a virulent case of  
gangrene).  
Well, not exactly swimmingly. There was that recent invasion of  
England by the army of John's former ally, Louis VIII of France, but  
that's a matter we'll leave for just a moment.  
The fact that he'd even lived long enough to succeed was something of  
a small miracle in itself. His previous, unlawful occupation of the  
throne as Regent during Richard's absentee reign should have led to a  
bloody feud between the two brothers, surely culminating in John's  
brutal death. Instead Richard saw that the worst punishment he could  
inflict on him was making him live with the humiliation of publicly  
returning the throne to its rightful ruler. The belittling words of  
"reconciliation" as Richard had called them - "Fear not, my brother,  
you are but a child led astray by evil councillors" - were what had  
hurt most of all. John had, after all, been twenty-seven years old at  
the time.  
Only after rising to succeed his brother in the years that followed  
had John finally grown to live down the political emasculation - and  
even then only just. The truth of his reign was it was the worst  
disaster to grip England since the Conquest of 1066. The horror of  
knowing that his own incompetence and cowardice had been exposed to the  
whole of the Norman Empire had forever tarnished his view of his  
dominion, and of himself. It made him see every success as no more than  
the delay of disaster, every ally as no more than a future conspirator,  
himself as no more than a pale shadow of his own brother.  
The inevitable collapse of the Norman Empire had set in after just a  
handful of years of his chaotic rule, to such eternal irony that all  
that remained of the mighty Angevin dominion, which had once stretched  
from Hadrian's Wall to the Mediterranean Sea, was England - poor,  
battered, down-trodden England, the land that for more than a century  
had itself been no more than the enslaved colony of the Norman  
oppressors. Now, thanks to John's failures, England was the only  
country the Normans had left. And he had spent the last ten years  
desperately battling to defend even that from his former countrymen,  
the French, and Scottish raiders attacking from the North.  
In order to bring the Norman barons back onto his side against King  
Louis' armies, he'd been forced into the most humiliating climb-down  
yet - agreeing to the terms laid out by the barons in the Magna  
Carta, effectively restricting his own powers and making him less than  
a King.  
With all this in mind he was in a humourless mood this morning. He  
had slept scarcely a wink, and had a crick in his neck, while his head  
throbbed desperately from the two flagons of claret he'd drowned his  
sorrows in the previous night.  
"Folly?" he called feebly.  
A giggling Saxon in a red-green outfit and harlequin make-up came  
prancing into the throne room, performed a preposterously low bow, then  
waved at the King cheekily. "Your Majesty?"  
Folly had been, until a couple of years ago, jester to an irritating  
Saxon Lord in the far North. One of John's numerous unsuccessful plans  
to keep the rebellious Northerners under control was to undermine their  
most powerful representative, the sanctimonious Lord of Dunshelm. To  
this end, he had attempted to "poach" (bothersome word for a Norman,  
that one) Dunshelm's staff. This was probably his most futile plan of  
all, chiefly because as it turned out, Dunshelm didn't have much by the  
way of staff, and in any case the only people who had accepted his  
offer of work at the Royal court were a juvenile serving maid calling  
herself Gretel, and this unctuous ninny calling himself Folly. It would  
be an exaggeration to say that the plan had actually backfired, but  
John found the pair of them so aggravating that he couldn't help  
suspecting that Dunshelm was grateful to finally see the back of them.  
In any case, word had it that Dunshelm had had no trouble in finding  
replacements for them, re-employing a new jester who had once served as  
his equerry at the Tourney of Alvingham, and a maid who had served food  
at the same Tourney.  
But there was something about this jester, this Folly that aroused  
John's suspicions. He couldn't say what it was, but there seemed to be  
real meaning in his apparent madness, a perverse logic, even wisdom.  
Something that might just make him useful, perhaps? He was undeniably a  
source of useful information about what obstacles to John's reign might  
emerge from the North.  
"Tell me, Folly," the King commanded, "tell me of this one you call  
Morghanna."  
"Morghanna, sire?" said Folly, blinking in surprise. "There remains  
little to say of her. Last word that I received from Lord Treguard was  
that she retreated to Scotland after a dispute with her former  
mentor..."  
"Er, mentor?"  
"Hmm?" Folly looked surprised to be interrupted. "Oh, your friend  
Mogdred, sire." Was there a note of disapproval in the jester's tone?  
"I doubt that Morghanna will return without his consent, and Mogdred is  
not the sort to forgive and forget."  
King John allowed his expression to collapse again. He could no  
longer be bothered to hide from his courtiers the strain he was  
feeling. "No," he commented quietly. "No. That he is not."  
  
* * *  
  
Somewhere in dungeons deep and caverns dark, a mocking sorcerer  
sneered as he saw in his crystal ball the dishevelled figure of a  
beleaguered Norman despot.  
"Why do you draw my attention to this?" demanded Mogdred. "What  
difference does it make? He has always been less than a King. This  
'Charter' of the Barons merely puts it in writing."  
His companion was sat on the other side of the ill-lit, decrepit  
little chamber. She was a woman in dark robes, the blackness of hatred  
almost glowing in her eyes. A huge burnt scar on her forehead, the  
fiery branding of an unhappy recent tangle with a Dungeoneer, tainted  
her otherwise beauteous appearance.  
"It is not the consequences for the King that concern me, my Lord,"  
answered Malice.  
"Then what does?"  
"This Charter has been forced upon the King by Norman Barons and  
Saxon Gentry, my Lord," explained Malice. "Not by one nor by the other,  
but by both. They are both united as seekers of the liberties of  
England. Do you not see what that means?" The unspoken challenge in  
Malice's tone was not lost upon Mogdred. She was implying that she was  
more observant than her mentor, or that she was powerful enough to see  
things that he could not.  
"Tell me," said Mogdred slowly, dangerously.  
"Never before have Anglo-Norman and Anglo-Saxon been this close,"  
continued Malice. "The division in English society could be bridged.  
The Saxons will be slaves to the Normans no longer, they will be  
enemies of the King no longer. The two peoples of England could become  
one."  
"Yes?"  
Malice looked puzzled by her master's puzzlement. "My Lord, do you  
not see? What of our own position?" No answer was forthcoming from the  
necromancer as yet, so Malice decided to elaborate. "As soon as he  
heard that the Gruagach was destroyed and Knightmare Castle had fallen  
back into Saxon hands, the King gave us - you - the Governorship of  
the North. Yours to keep as long as you kept the threat posed by  
Treguard's new power in check..."  
"I am aware of that."  
"This new Charter, this Magna Carta, threatens all that, my Lord!"  
Malice just barely avoided shrieking, such was her exasperation at her  
mentor's apparent obtuseness. "It would make Treguard the King's ally.  
And as Lord of the mightiest stronghold in the North of England he will  
become Governor."  
"Have you quite finished?"  
Malice went silent. She hated these moments. She'd gone through them  
so many times since becoming Mogdred's apprentice - whenever she  
realised she'd missed the key detail in a plan, whenever she'd failed  
to see the big picture, whenever she'd misunderstood the plan within  
the plan... and then had it explained to her in withering tones by the  
dark master what the reality was, leaving her quaking with  
embarrassment.  
"You really are such a limited creature aren't you?" boomed Mogdred  
resonantly. "Did you honestly think that the approval of that  
snivelling Norman coward was in any way significant to my plans?"  
"We have answered to him for years..."  
"Nonsense!" thundered Mogdred so loudly that the walls trembled  
slightly. "His co-operation was required at the outset to establish my  
authority within the dungeon! That was done years ago, as was his  
usefulness in the same moment." Mogdred walked over to his throne and  
seated himself on it. He continued a little more calmly. "With the  
Plantagenet's help I was able to take command of the lowest level of  
Dunshelm. As soon as I was established within the dungeon my powers  
were reborn in their fullest, in their darkest. What possible need did  
I have for King John's imaginary authority in the face of my limitless  
power? It suited my purposes to maintain the pretence of compliance, if  
only for the sake of convenience. But after all these years, after all  
my glorious successes, and after all his misbegotten failures, what  
value can he be? To anyone?"  
Mogdred snapped his fingers and in his bony hand there materialised a  
golden goblet filled with the darkest red wine. He sipped from it and  
smiled.  
"Let him make Treguard a Governor," he sneered. "What is that? Just a  
word. It will change nothing. I can still restrain that malodorous cell-  
mucker with just a thought any time he dares use his paltry magic to  
gaze upon my countenance!"  
"The Northguard could be reborn with the co-operation of the King,"  
protested Malice, "especially with the Scots becoming so restless on  
the border once again. The McGrew clan alone have caused countless  
troubles with their forays South, and the King will want them stopped.  
How many extra troops could Treguard obtain from the Norm-...?"  
"Let him!" repeated Mogdred acidly. "In this realm of unreality, as  
you well know, a thousand such troops would mean nothing. Under my  
subliminal guidance, the dungeon has spread far and wide across the  
North of England, and my influence has thus spread with it." Mogdred  
smiled again, more deeply. "You must have so little imagination, if you  
see the King's decline as a problem, Malice. Far from it. It is an  
opportunity. One obstacle fewer between myself and the throne."  
"But the people will side with him if you rise against him..."  
"Which is why I have not made such a move yet," continued Mogdred  
with calm assurance. "Even before the Charter was signed, the people  
would have sided with him against any necromancer. Such is their  
superstitious fear. But have you considered this? This Charter has  
given the people of England hope for new liberty. But it is in the  
nature of the King to go back on his word. If he did so after all this,  
he will turn the people against him again, more so than ever before. So  
much so that by that stage they would even tolerate a wizard on the  
throne. If I were to overthrow him then I would even be proclaimed a  
hero and liberator by the people of England."  
Malice stared at her Master in astonishment. She hated to admit it to  
herself, but her speechlessness was as much about admiration for the  
clarity of his thinking as it was about fear of his power. "You... you  
had all this in mind from the outset?" she managed to stammer.  
"Of course," answered Mogdred smoothly. "If I were opposed to this  
Charter, do you really think I would have allowed it to happen?" He  
settled back and smiled. "Yes, let this run its course. Be patient, my  
dear, wait for our opportunity. The throne will be mine almost by  
default."  
  
* * *  
  
Treguard allowed himself a pleased grunt as he swung the door shut.  
The clang of metal and stone reverberated for a moment as the Dungeon  
Master resumed his seat. The Quest Season had now ended. To say that it  
had been a little different to past Seasons would be like saying that  
the ground is a little way below the stars. He'd never imagined that  
the dungeon could have grown so far, spread so thin beyond Knightmare  
Castle that it now reached the other distant ruined fortresses of the  
former Northguard such as Dungarth and the Tower of Time, above the  
Dunswater. The game, if game it was, had changed. There was something  
that disturbed him deeply about it. He couldn't help feeling that there  
had to be significance to this, a deeper reason for the changes than he  
had so far fathomed. He decided he would have to discuss it with Merlin  
at the first available opportunity. That, he realised, might be  
difficult now that the path was closed. In fact Merlin had only been  
there a moment earlier, wishing a Merry Christmas to the last team of  
the season, before wandering off to wherever it was he usually chose to  
hibernate while the dungeon was reforming.  
"For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost," said Treguard heavily.  
Pickle, as was his wont, was sat on the table, legs crossed, eyes  
closed, head bowed. His eyes suddenly shot open and were redirected  
toward the Dungeon Master in elfin surprise.  
"Master?"  
"Nothing, Pickle," answered Treguard, suddenly feeling the exact type  
of exhaustion most people feel on the last day of work before their  
holidays begin. "I just wanted to discuss something with Merlin before  
he left that's all."  
"To talk about nails?"  
"No, sprite, not to talk about nails. It was just a saying."  
"A saying?" Pickle brightened, gaining interest in the discussion.  
"Why, my people specialise in that industry. We could teach you  
many..."  
"Oh good," said Treguard with a quick finality that on the one hand  
begged explanation, and on the other invited nothing but an end to the  
discussion. Pickle, being half-elf-half-imp, and thus entirely a faerie  
creature, was blind to any path other than one that would feed his  
curiosity.  
"What was the saying, Master?"  
Treguard sighed, making a mental note never to say anything  
interesting-sounding in Pickle's presence in future. Being trapped on  
this occasion, he answered.  
"For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost. It's an abbreviated cause  
and effect chain."  
"Ah," said Pickle, nodding wisely to himself. "Ah." He nodded a  
little more slowly and thoughtfully. "Has this got anything to do with  
those 'bicycle'-things that Dungeoneer was telling us about...?"  
"No, not that kind of chain..." Treguard shook his head. How did he  
manage to get stuck in these conversations? "Look, it goes like this...  
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe, the horse  
was lost. For want of a horse, the rider was lost. For want of a rider,  
the message was lost. For want of the message, the battle was lost. For  
the loss of the battle, the war was lost. For the loss of the war, the  
kingdom was lost." He sighed heavily. "And all for the want of a nail."  
"Ah," nodded Pickle again, this concept apparently more familiar  
ground. "I see. Yes. And this is how Merlin left was it?"  
"Pardon?"  
"By horse I mean? As opposed to by bicycle? I must say, neither sound  
much like him, he usually just disappears with a flash of lightning..."  
"No Pickle," growled Treguard, "I told you, it's just an expression.  
I mean there may be problems because I haven't had a chance to talk...  
gah! I don't know why I even mentioned it, it's not even relevant. Just  
forget it."  
"As you wish, Master," nodded Pickle obediently.  
Treguard turned to look at the great dungeon door. He really needed  
to get a proper portcullis to cover the portal some time, it was  
dangerous with all these goblin patrols, both within the dungeon and  
without. With the depths of winter drawing in, and drawing the  
bitterest cold in with it, the temptation for the savages of the  
supernatural wild to seek shelter indoors, with or without invitation,  
was considerable. Treguard was not immune to generous impulses of  
course, but they didn't extend to everyone, and the thought a few dozen  
goblin hunters putting their feet up in front of his fireside was not  
going to draw out the best in him.  
He shaped to resume his seat...  
"Owwww! Gerroff!"  
Taken aback, Treguard sprang upright again and turned around to find  
someone was already sat there. Someone old, someone shrunken and  
hunched, dressed in a dark, musty, oversized cloak, and with a large  
hooked nose like a melting candle. Pickle looked up sharply at the  
sound of the shout and leapt from the tabletop, effecting a nimble  
forward somersault in mid-air, before landing in front of the chair,  
crouched in a defensive position. He moved his arms from side to side  
in contained chopping motions, as though daring the unexpected visitor  
to attack.  
Treguard looked at the intruder with annoyance rather than fright.  
"Mildread!" he growled at the old crone. "You've always had a nerve,  
but to dare to come in here uninvit-..." His voice cut short as he  
began to find Pickle's strange defensive posturing too distracting to  
ignore. "Pickle, stop that."  
The elf-imp looked abashed. "I'm just trying an ancient protective  
ritual developed by my people thousands of years ago."  
"Really?" said Treguard skeptically.  
"Yes," insisted Pickle. "No disrespect, Master, but as a mortal, you  
wouldn't understand."  
"Understand what?"  
"The elfin traditions of combat that I am proudly adhering to..."  
Treguard glowered suspiciously. "You're not, are you?"  
"I am!" repeated Pickle. "I am, really!"  
"No you're not," repeated Treguard. "One of the Advisors recently  
mentioned to us something she was learning in her own Time called  
'Martial Arts'. You were trying it out, weren't you?"  
"No..."  
"Even though you don't know anything about it," continued Treguard  
derisively. "You're fantasizing again aren't you?"  
Pickle was about to protest, but then looked away in embarrassment.  
"Well, maybe a little. Oh what's the harm, Master? The mortal spoke  
highly of that 'Car-rarty' thing she was learning, I just thought I'd  
see if it would be useful..."  
"The harm is that you have received no tuition, Pickle," explained  
Treguard, not noticing the dizzied looks he and Pickle were getting  
from Mildread as she tried unsuccessfully to follow the conversation.  
"If this intruder were to pose a threat and you were to attempt to  
defend yourself using a combat art in which you have no previous  
experience you would be defeated, perhaps worse. It's naive in the  
extreme to..."  
"Excuse me?" interjected Mildread. "Can we have that blazing row now  
please? I mean, you started yelling at me just now and I'd rather you  
got on with it - I haven't got all year."  
Treguard blinked several times to clear the confusion of carrying on  
two separate conversations at once. "Never mind that, I think you got  
the drift. What are you doing back here? Last I heard of you, you'd  
retreated to Ireland."  
"Oh yesssss," slurred Mildread, her oversized tongue distorting her  
speech more than ever. "Lovely place. Ideal holiday for a tired old  
witch. Hills as green as emerald, winding rivers, hardly any of those  
blasted Normans around, and best of all, the last descendants of the  
druids still worship there."  
"Is that why you went there?" asked Pickle. He had heard of Mildread,  
and though he'd never met her of course, he knew enough to realise that  
she was a devious piece of work.  
"Of course," nodded the crone, her beady little eyes lighting up in a  
strange kind of grimy cheer, "they hold a ritual at dawn during every  
spring equinox. At that time of year the sun can be touched by earthly  
magic, you see. And the ritual draws on the energies of the sun to  
recharge their powers. They let me join in the last couple of years -  
it added ten years to my life."  
Treguard clearly didn't share Mildread's joy at this particular turn  
of events. "Yes. Well thankfully no one lives forever."  
"Oh, is that any way to greet an old friend and comrade after all  
this..."  
"Spare me your pseudo-ironic bunk, Mildread," snapped Treguard. "You  
still haven't answered my question. If you found Ireland so agreeable  
why did you come back?"  
"Oh, nothing to be so suspicious about, Dungeon Master," cooed  
Mildread. "Anything but."  
"I'm listening."  
"Usually I don't give a damn what happens to you, of course,"  
continued Mildread, "But this time it affects me just as much as you.  
I've got a warning for you, Treguard." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "And  
for all our sakes you'd better take it very seriously."  
  
* * *  
  
Motley sniffed the ale pot cautiously. It smelt real.  
He ran his finger slowly, tenderly, lovingly down the delicately  
seductive curve of the side of the ale pot, and shivered with desire.  
It felt real.  
He then closed his hand around the ale pot, lifting it gently but  
firmly from the surface of the table, whisking it swiftly to his lips,  
which smoulderingly caressed the rim. It was real. This was the real  
thing! The ale pot was like putty in his hands, he was in control.  
Suddenly, he was like an animal, roughly lifting the ale pot and  
freeing its contents from their revealing confines, ecstasy rushing  
through him as he swallowed, his larynx rhythmically undulating back  
and forth, faster and faster and...  
Splosh! Huge pools of ale gathered on the tabletop, spillages from  
Motley's drunken romp. He looked at the ale pot, which suddenly looked  
to him miserable, used and incomplete. He frowned at it apologetically.  
"Damn," he muttered unhappily, glancing down at the mess on the table  
in shame, "why does that always happen to me?" He looked embarrassed  
and glum as he propped his face up with his hands, his elbows resting  
in the pool of ale, which slowly started soaking into the material of  
his costume.  
Mellisandre quickly hurried up to his table with a cloth that she  
started mopping up the mess with. She sniffed, as though she felt  
offended, even let down, but when she spoke she sounded reassuring.  
"It's all right, Motley," she promised, "it happens to everyone at some  
time. Nothing to be ashamed of." She suddenly brightened. "Tell you  
what, I'll bring you another one in a minute, and you can try again."  
The maid walked away, leaving Motley to sulk drunkenly over his empty  
ale pot. He'd been waiting weeks for his next visit to the Crazed  
Heifer - unsurprising, considering that in King John's time, a  
jester's wage was not high when employed by a mere Saxon Lord. But now  
that he'd finally got his groping hands on his long lusted-after pot of  
ale, he'd shot the liquid down prematurely.  
A large, strong, but also elegant, hand protruding from a broad  
scarlet sleeve took a firm grip on Motley's shoulder. Whoever it was  
who had accosted him, the jester knew not, but he turned to look up at  
him, and missed by no more than four inches.  
"Greetings, Fool," muttered the gravelly tones of Hordriss the  
Confuser. "One trusts that your voice is in good working order this  
fine day?"  
Motley looked at the bearded figure resentfully. "No thanks to you,"  
he answered, sourly recalling once being deprived of his voice by a  
spell that Hordriss had cast on him as a punishment for rudeness. He'd  
ended up needing help from a Dungeoneer to get his voice back on that  
occasion, so he knew that he'd have to handle this conversation very  
cagily. That was what his head said anyway. The pint of ale currently  
swilling around in his stomach told him to carry on being spiky, and  
having spent the last few moments beating his brain around, there was  
no danger of the pint being overruled from that direction. "What do you  
want, goat-features?"  
Hordriss looked indignant. "Have a care, Fool," he brayed  
dangerously. "Your assistance would be convenient on this occasion, but  
it is hardly necessary. And one is more than capable of depriving of  
you of the use of various body parts other than just your voice box."  
Motley's hands reflexively moved to cover a certain sensitive region  
to be found (by those with despairingly poor taste in habits) below his  
belt.  
"One was referring to your legs as a matter of fact," sniffed  
Hordriss disdainfully. "Under any circumstances, one would never regard  
those particular appendages, which you are currently making so  
laughable an attempt to protect, to be worthy of one's attention."  
Motley didn't really follow any part of this labyrinthine string of  
words, but did guess correctly that Hordriss was insulting his manhood.  
"Bog off," he suggested and looked back at the tiny quantity of ale  
that still remained in the pot.  
"You are a messy drinker, Motley," continued Hordriss, seating  
himself without invitation in the seat opposite the jester, and eyeing  
the pools of spilt ale with distaste.  
"You're a messy hairdresser," Motley bit back nastily.  
Hordriss decided that the best way to avoid losing his temper over  
this remark was to just ignore it. "One has a message for your Master."  
"Why don't you tell 'im it yourself?" said Motley moodily.  
"With the dungeons now out of phase," explained Hordriss,  
"communication is rather more difficult than usual. And it is not in my  
interest to attend Knightmare Castle itself in person. But one has a  
small pact to offer the Dungeon Master. Ask him to meet one on the  
outskirts of Dunsholm village at dawn in two days time, when we can  
discuss the matter."  
Motley looked at him supiciously, then marvelled at Hordriss'  
athletic talent - in all his life Motley had never seen anyone  
simultaneously sitting at either end of a thirty foot corridor that  
they weren't even present in. Motley then suspected that he really  
shouldn't have drunk the whole pint so quickly, it was playing tricks  
on his mind.  
At this point Mellisandre returned with a fresh pot of ale, and all  
such regrets were swiftly forgotten.  
"Tha's it?" he slurred in Hordriss' direction. "Tha's all you want me  
to tell 'im?"  
"Indeed," nodded Hordriss, resuming his feet. "One would encourage  
haste on your part. However, by the same token, one would be grateful  
if you at least waited until after you have sobered up." He turned and  
stalked quietly toward the exit.  
"All right," Motley belched toward the warlock's retreating back,  
"I'll tell 'im first thing in the mornin'." He then turned his  
slavering attention toward his free drink. "Well not first thing  
obviously," he added, more to himself than anyone else, "I'll be in no  
shape for business in the mornin'. Not after drinkin' this."  
  
* * *  
  
"I'm still listening," said Treguard testily, pointing firmly at the  
floor.  
Mildread tutted as she realised that he was gesturing to her to get  
out of his seat. With an unfit grunt and some stomach-turning clicks  
from her joints, the old crone pulled herself upright, limped over to  
the table and parked herself on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches  
usually reserved for Dungeoneering Advisors. She then pulled a small  
scroll from her cloak and put it down on the table. Meanwhile Treguard  
sat on his seat, and ignored that typical nagging discomfort he always  
felt upon sitting on a chair that was still warm from someone else's  
backside. Pickle picked up the scroll and carried it over to the  
Dungeon Master.  
Treguard took it from Pickle, peeled off the ribbon cautiously, and  
opened it out. He perused the symbols on the scroll in bafflement. They  
appeared to be a series of hastily-sketched hieroglyphics, representing  
a long understood practice of the natural world - the process of the  
caterpillar maturing into the butterfly.  
"What exactly is this?" demanded Treguard.  
Mildread slurped a gasp of air between tongue and teeth, and pointed  
a crooked, long-nailed finger in the direction of the Dungeon Master.  
"I hoped you'd know. I'm not sure. All I can tell you is that while I  
was sleeping one night on the coast of Leinster, I dreamt. I dreamt  
long and I dreamt fearfully, Treguard. Oh yes, I could hardly remember  
any of it when I wokes up. Dreams is like that, but I found this scroll  
by my side."  
Pickle looked at Treguard, and found his own blank look being  
reflected back at him. "What do you mean, you found it?" asked the elf.  
"How did it get there?"  
Mildread looked down at her own hands. "I thinks I cast a spell in my  
sleep. It was sub-... subth-... subs-... subconth-..." She let out a  
frustrated sigh at her own lack of coherence. "I thinks I did it by  
accident. A spell to transfer my dream to paper so that I could  
remember it in the mornin'. Being magic, you can't rely on it to be  
clear on the meaning. But I'm sure it was a premonition, and this  
scroll..." She pointed once more at the parchment in Treguard's hand,  
"...is some kind of symbol of it."  
"You can't remember anything of the dream at all?" pried Treguard,  
looking down at the scroll gravely.  
"Only fear," hissed Mildread. "Only the fear I felt. I'm sure that  
you and Mr Spock over there was in it," she added, gesturing towards  
Pickle, who looked over his shoulder to see if she was referring to  
someone else in the room, "And Merlin, and loadsa others. And that we  
was all dying just before I woke up."  
Treguard looked up at her sharply. "Dying? What caused that?"  
Mildread looked impatient. "Like I says, I don't know!" she snapped.  
"Some kind of great and terrible change lies ahead, and that will lead  
to our deaths. That seemed to be the gist of it."  
"A great change, Master?" murmured Pickle nervously. "What could it  
be?"  
Treguard looked down at the images on the parchment again.  
Caterpillar to butterfly. Well that was a change obviously, but he  
somehow doubted that it could have anything to do with something so  
unremarkable. But then, hadn't Mildread implied that this was only a  
symbol for something more?  
"Most disturbing," he nodded, "if you're telling the truth."  
"Course I'm tellin' the truth!" spat Mildread.  
"How do we know that for sure?"  
Mildread looked at him knowingly. "You know." Her stare was firm,  
unwavering. Yes, she was telling the truth. It made very little sense  
otherwise anyway - Mildread may have had a childish sense of humour,  
but even she wouldn't come all the way back from Ireland just to play a  
practical joke.  
This premonition was worrying though. "Is there anything else you can  
tell us?"  
Mildread seemed to pause for thought. "The only other thing I  
remembers is a phrase. Something someone said to me in the dream. It  
seemed to stick in my mind after I woke up."  
"Don't keep us in suspense, Mildread," insisted Treguard irritably,  
"Tell us!"  
"Well there's a problem," she replied. "It sounds back-to-front  
like."  
"Back-to-front?" said Pickle. "What is it?"  
Mildread looked bothered, then answered. "I thinks it was, er..." She  
cleared her throat. "It was 'The key to defeat lies in victory.'" She  
shrugged.  
Treguard considered this. He didn't know why but there was something  
about this that really made him shiver.  
"Yes that does sound backwards, Master," Pickle suddenly  
interjected. "The key to defeat? People on the verge of victory do not  
look for ways to fail."  
"Indeed they do not," agreed Treguard. "Not often anyway. All right,  
Mildread, we'll assume I believe you for the moment. What should we do?  
Any ideas?"  
"Oh, I've 'ad a good idea all along, Dungeon Master," sneered  
Mildread. "I'm orff. I ain't stayin' round 'ere for long, no chance.  
I'm putting as much distance between me and England as possible. I'd  
head for Spain if I thought it was far enough but it ain't. So I'll  
probably head for China. Why, I'd consider leaving the planet if I  
thought I could. You sort it out, whatever it is, and maybe I'll come  
back."  
Treguard frowned. "It would almost be worth dying, if only to prevent  
you from coming back," he retorted unkindly.  
"Yeah? Well that's up to you, Treguard. S'long." Mildread snapped her  
fingers, there was a loud rumble, a blinding flash of light, and she  
was suddenly gone.  
Treguard cursed quietly. "Typical, leave everyone else to do the  
dirty work." He gave the scroll another glance and shook his head.  
"Pickle?"  
"Yes Master?"  
"Have all the men-at-arms remain on stand by," ordered Treguard.  
"Just in case."  
  
* * *  
  
Mogdred gazed into the crystal patiently. Patience was the key for  
Mogdred. Patience had been, down the many years, his strongest card.  
Never move too soon, wait for the opportunity, be prepared to accept  
small victories instead of insisting on everything at once. Wait for  
the opponent to show his weakness, then play upon it. Do not move until  
then, or who could say what damage the opponent might inflict?  
Patience, patience, patience. This was his very simple equation for  
success. For the most part it worked very well. A tiny handful of  
Treguard's Dungeoneers had thwarted him by managing to keep their flaws  
hidden, but most of them had shown him the chinks in their armour, be  
it through foolishness, lack of agility, lack of speed, or sheer  
corruptibility. The painful truth that Mogdred had tried hard to keep  
quiet was that an opponent without weaknesses was a real conundrum for  
him, the nature of his own magic was not well-equipped for that. But  
happily such opponents were so few and so far between that this was  
rarely put to the test.  
Mogdred knew now, as he gazed upon the countenance of the odious  
King, that the opportunity was not there yet. But soon, soon it would  
be. This new Charter, the Magna Carta as it was called, had been  
signed. This had demonstrated King John's political weakness - his  
isolation, the opposition to him throughout the kingdom, which the  
Charter was the price he'd had to pay to placate it. It would soon open  
up his greatest personal weakness - his duplicity. At some point he  
would go back on the word of the Charter, to try and force the genie of  
English liberty back into its bottle, and then his position would be  
untenable.  
Soon. All that was required was patience. Mogdred's finest strength.  
  
* * *  
  
Dawn over the ghost village of Dunsholm was dismal and dingy. It was  
deepest winter, frost covered the harsh and scuppered ground. This  
village had once been a proud and thriving border town for honest cross-  
border tradesmen, defended ably by the mighty Northguard from Scots  
raiders. But since the capture of Dunshelm by the diabolical Gruagach,  
for whom defence of the realm was not an issue, the Scots had virtually  
had free reign of the far North. After numerous brutal attacks on the  
peaceful village, its surviving occupants finally upped and departed,  
leaving it a deserted and battered monument to a past oasis from Norman  
avarice.  
Treguard rode along a gravelly path down the hillside toward the  
village, astride his horse, Black. The horse was getting very old now,  
but Treguard still trusted it implicitly, and given choice would never  
dream of travelling with any other. At the foot of the hill, with a  
gentle tug of the reigns Treguard pulled Black to a halt. He looked  
from side to side warily. "Hordriss!" he called out nervously.  
"Hordriss, you insisted on this meeting, now where are you?"  
"You sound edgy, Dungeon Master."  
Treguard looked over his shoulder sharply to see Hordriss the  
Confuser suddenly standing behind him with his usual regal arrogance,  
his red-white hair barely moved by the dull morning breeze.  
"Do I?" asked Treguard, betraying no surprise at this premeditated  
display of sinister obscurity.  
Hordriss sidled his eyes in either direction, then looked back at  
Treguard. "One knows not whether to commend your courage, or condemn  
your recklessness, coming here alone. Why are you so sure you can trust  
me?"  
Treguard was impassive, just stared at him for a moment, then  
replied. "Of course I can't. And if you think I'm foolish enough to  
leave myself unprotected..." He didn't finish his sentence, but pointed  
up to the crest of the hill. Hordriss looked in the direction  
indicated, and noted without surprise or admiration that Pickle was  
stood there, armed with a longbow. Nocked in the bow was an arrow that  
was aimed at Hordriss. Although there were a good hundred yards between  
archer and target, there could be little doubt that any elf would  
comfortably score a direct hit from that range.  
Hordriss smiled. "Well now I know. One thanks you for so obligingly  
revealing your hand."  
Treguard had already tired of the sinister posturing. "I'm very busy,  
Hordriss. This had better be important."  
"Important, yes," nodded Hordriss, "And in all probability, not  
unrelated."  
Treguard looked at once amused and irritated. "And how exactly would  
you know what I am so busy with?"  
"How I know is unimportant," said Hordriss. "For that matter, even if  
I know is not important. What you are busy with is crucial. If it  
involves Mogdred."  
"It might do," answered Treguard.  
"No need for evasion," insisted the proud warlock.  
"I am not being evasive," Treguard retorted strongly. "I mean, I'm  
not sure if it involves him or not."  
Hordriss looked like he was a little unclear on this point, but  
continued. "Well, perhaps one can help. One has a pact to offer you,  
Treguard. A pact that might benefit your position."  
Treguard remained impassive. "Yes?"  
"One is well aware of your current difficulties with the necromancer  
of the third level," continued Hordriss.  
"What difficulties?"  
"Do not be disingenuous, Dungeon Master!" snarled Hordriss. "One is  
not easily deceived by false conceit. He is the cancer that rots your  
dungeon from within. He is the decay that reduces the honourable Game  
of Luck and Glory with which you challenge the aspirants of Chivalry,  
into a war of petty crime and political machination. He uses your own  
power as Master of the dungeon against you, to restrain you from  
exercising your rightful authority."  
Treguard looked more than embarrassed to hear the truth stated so  
bluntly. He maintained a painful silence.  
"Feel no shame, Dungeon Master, feel no shame," said Hordriss more  
gently. "We all have our bridges to cross, our demons to exorcise.  
Mogdred is yours."  
"And presumably you can exorcise Mogdred for me?" snorted Treguard.  
"Why no, Treguard," answered Hordriss, "one cannot. But then one does  
not have to. If one requires the removal of an opponent, there are far  
more direct methods of achieving it."  
"Are you seriously suggesting that you can assassinate Mogdred?"  
"Not exactly."  
"Doesn't sound all that direct so far, Hordriss," Treguard commented  
dryly. "But let's overlook the details for the time being. You are  
offering to rid me of Mogdred. What are you demanding in return?"  
"Maybe the elimination of Mogdred is its own reward, Dungeon Master,"  
Hordriss answered not at all.  
"And why would you want to?" insisted Treguard. "Mogdred is neither  
friend nor foe to you."  
Hordriss finally grew impatient. "Do we have a pact, Treguard? Yes or  
no?"  
But of course Treguard was far too canny for that. "No. Not yet. I  
want to know exactly what you want to do and why you want to destroy  
him. Then maybe we can do a deal."  
Hordriss still looked irritated, but he knew that he had little  
choice. "It is still a direct method, Treguard. And it is  
assassination."  
The corners of Treguard's mouth drew back into a grimace that spoke  
only of distaste. "How courageous," he sniffed, voice drenched in the  
spices of sarcasm. "You never did have much time for principle did  
you?"  
Hordriss sneered. "Oh indeed, Dungeon Master? You send children into  
the dungeon to fight your battles against Mogdred for you, and you've  
even been known to laugh when they meet their demise. Now you speak in  
withering tones to me about poor morals?"  
Treguard looked abashed, and did not reply. It was undeniable, and it  
had become a source of real shame to Treguard. He looked away to the  
pleasing slopes and hills and wearily considered the recent years, the  
terrible fates that had befallen so many of his Dungeoneers, and how  
little their deaths had affected him. Even now the only thing that  
disturbed him was how little it had all disturbed him.  
Hordriss continued. "You know Mogdred's origin of course."  
"Of course," confirmed Treguard, "I was present when he first  
emerged."  
"And where did he emerge from, Treguard?"  
"Merlin."  
Hordriss' expression did not seem to change, yet his eyes burned with  
a ruthless smile. "Precisely."  
Treguard's eyes narrowed with doubt. "What are you suggesting,  
Hordriss?" Hordriss did not answer, but then he didn't have to.  
Treguard glowered. "Now I know you're not being serious."  
"It is the only way, Treguard," said Hordriss quietly.  
"Murder him? Murder Merlin?"  
"They are two sides of the same whole, Dungeon Master," explained  
Hordriss, "Good and Evil, as you call them, they cannot exist  
independently, there cannot be one without the other, for if there is  
no Evil, how can one acknowledge Good? They are a balancing force  
within nature."  
"I see," said Treguard, who didn't. "And now that we've finished that  
little sojourn into the world of philosophy, could we return to the  
subject of Merlin...?"  
"Stop pretending to be obtuse," hissed Hordriss, "you understand what  
one is saying. Merlin cannot exist without Mogdred, nor can Mogdred  
exist without Merlin. One is the yin to the other's yang. Destroy  
Merlin, and Mogdred is no more."  
"But..."  
"Think, Dungeon Master," Hordriss continued, "if you rid yourself of  
Mogdred, Merlin will cease to exist anyway. They both die either way,  
and you cannot deny that Mogdred must be destroyed."  
"Perhaps."  
"Not perhaps," Hordriss maintained, "it is beyond dispute. Even I  
concur with it, and, as you were so quick to indicate, one is usually  
accustomed to remaining impartial on such matters. At least if we  
strike Merlin down, we are likely to survive the battle. If we confront  
Mogdred, we are likely to die with him - assuming he dies at all."  
Treguard shook his head, genuinely tormented by the direction the  
discussion had taken. "But I can't agree to this! I can't destroy  
Merlin, he's my friend."  
"You will not have to," said Hordriss. "If you grant me access to  
your Castle, I will do the deed. Well?"  
Treguard looked distraught. On the one hand, his sense of loyalty,  
his ethics, screamed at him to say no. But on the other hand he heard  
his sense of duty, of responsibility, reminding him very loudly but  
very calmly that Mogdred had to die, or who could say what horrors  
might befall England? And logic told him, equally loudly, that Hordriss  
had a good point - if Merlin would automatically die as Mogdred died,  
or vice versa, what difference would it make which one was destroyed?  
But still, how could he help to murder Merlin?  
He finally looked back at Hordriss. "No," he said firmly, "I can't do  
this."  
Hordriss was exasperated. "Such irrational weakness, I should have  
expected no better..."  
"Hold your insolent tongue!" growled Treguard. "I will speak to  
Merlin in person. If he concurs with your plan, if he is prepared to go  
along with it, I will contact you and we will see where we go from  
there."  
"Do not be absurd!" sneered Hordriss. "He will never agree to his own  
death! You will merely inform him and he will make steps to prevent us  
from taking action. You will cost us the opp-..."  
"Merlin has long stated," interjected Treguard, slowly, quietly,  
fiercely, doggedly, "that he would readily give his life to rid the  
world of evil. If your theory is true, this will be his chance, and he  
will accept it." He continued quickly, before Hordriss could attempt  
any contradiction. "What you're proposing, on the other hand, is to  
catch him while he is unprepared, and kill him. That would be murder,  
Hordriss. How can I possibly stand by such a thing?"  
"This is emotion speaking..."  
"Now you're the one being obtuse," Treguard jeered. "It's not  
emotion, I simply know that it's something I can't do. I am not a  
murderer."  
"Nonsense!" retorted Hordriss. "You have killed many in battle."  
"I've killed, yes," admitted Treguard. "I'm not a killer."  
At this remark, Hordriss' face became a case study in the very aspect  
he was most famous for - confusion. "There is a difference?"  
"I think so," said Treguard, "even if you don't. And besides, I know  
this sounds a little old fashioned, but isn't it illegal?"  
Hordriss clearly didn't think that this last point was worthy of a  
direct answer, and with good reason. After all, what meaning did the  
law of the land have within the dungeon? Surely none. "I repeat, you  
will not have to do the deed."  
"I wouldn't have to, to commit a crime," Treguard corrected him. "I  
would be an accessory to murder, which in some ways is even worse. No.  
We have no right to extract such a sacrifice from Merlin on his behalf,  
it must be for him to decide. I will not betray him, Hordriss. I am not  
capable of it." Treguard's shoulders slumped. He suddenly felt tired.  
"I'll speak to Merlin. If he agrees that it can work... If he's  
prepared to..." He didn't want to say it. "I'll contact you with his  
answer." With that, Treguard hurriedly hauled on Black's reigns, turned  
the horse about and headed back uphill swiftly, determined to leave  
before Hordriss could keep the argument alive.  
  
* * *  
  
The old wizard was waiting in the antechamber of the Castle. Treguard  
hadn't expected to see him there, and he couldn't help a guilty start  
of surprise. Pickle was sat on the side of the table, looking away  
awkwardly, saying nothing. What, after all, was there to say?  
"Dungeon Master," Merlin greeted him stiffly. It wasn't difficult to  
realise that, wherever he had been hibernating, Merlin had seen and  
heard what Treguard had been discussing with Hordriss. Nor was it  
difficult to realise that Merlin had told Pickle. Least of all was it  
difficult to realise that Merlin was angry. Very angry.  
Not knowing where to begin, Treguard began to speak. "I..." was as  
far as he got.  
"You and Hordriss have had plenty of say, Treguard!" Merlin cut in  
quickly, acidly. "Now it's my turn." Treguard looked like he wanted to  
protest at the accusation in the sorcerer's voice, but then bowed his  
head politely, allowing Merlin to continue. "I always knew that it  
would come to this at some point. I've tried for years to think of a  
way of vanquishing Mogdred without..." He suddenly ceased to look  
angry, and instead just looked forlorn and tired, "...without... you  
know. There is no way. Indeed this appears to be the only way we can be  
sure of destroying him, whatever happens to me."  
Merlin had already thought of it? Treguard wasn't entirely surprised  
that he had never mentioned it - it was hardly an idea that most  
people would like to promote, or even draw attention to. But still  
Treguard was a little hurt, because it indicated that Merlin didn't  
trust him enough to share the idea with him, even if it was only to  
eliminate it from the (very short) list of options.  
"Merlin, look," Treguard started, "I haven't made any deal with..."  
"I haven't finished!" snapped Merlin. Treguard was taken aback  
somewhat, and fell silent again. "I know you haven't made any deals.  
You misunderstand my anger, Treguard. It's not directed at you. It's  
not even directed at Hordriss." Merlin stared at the wall, as though  
expecting it to give all the answers. He was in the wrong part of the  
Castle for that, the wall remained silent. "I'm angry with myself."  
"Why?" The question was from Pickle, who had clearly been on the  
receiving end of some calamitous rant from Merlin about Treguard and  
Hordriss and their deceitful dealings, non-existent though they were.  
"You ask why?" Chuckling feebly, Merlin looked down to where his own  
toes were poking out from under the hem of his colourful robes.  
"Because Hordriss is right. There is only one way we can be sure that  
Mogdred is destroyed, and I've been lying to myself for years that I  
can find another way to rid us of him. Or that there would never be a  
time that his destruction would become imperative."  
"That time is now?" probed Treguard carefully.  
Merlin nodded. "Yes, that time is now. My powers are no longer a  
match for his, and I won't be able to contain him much more."  
"But," stammered Pickle, "I-I don't understand, Merlin. You and  
Mogdred are supposed to be..."  
Merlin held up his hand and interrupted. "I know what you're going to  
say, sprite," he said sadly. "The problem is the nature of the  
dungeon." Merlin sat himself down on one of the benches, and for the  
first time in all the years Treguard had known him, he suddenly looked  
genuinely beaten. Not just physically tired, but spiritually exhausted.  
"His powers are more passive than you might think. He works the  
weaknesses of his enemies. When his enemies fail, when they die, he  
draws power from the life force he has drained from them." Merlin shook  
his head. "He has taken the lives of so many Dungeoneers, both from  
this era and from the possible future, that his power has grown great.  
By contrast, our victories have been so few, that my own power has  
scarcely grown at all." He reached around the back of his neck and  
pulled from it a chain, on which was suspended the Talisman of Luck  
that a Dungeoneer had once reclaimed for him. "Look at this," he  
mumbled despairingly. "It's not enough. It bought us time, nothing  
more. And now that time has run out." He looked up at Treguard through  
worn eyes. "I cannot afford to pretend anymore, Dungeon Master. I have  
to die."  
There it was. He had said it, and the silence that followed deafened  
Treguard with its thunderous nothingness. Pickle looked distraught, but  
he also said nothing.  
Merlin got to his feet once more and headed toward the dungeon door.  
"Tell Hordriss that I agree," he instructed Treguard voicelessly, "and  
don't feel any hesitation or guilt. I have lived for centuries beyond  
counting." He paused at the threshold of the portal and looked over his  
shoulder at Treguard. "All things have their time, and when their time  
ends, they must end with it. In truth, mine passed before Arthur died.  
I must stop delaying the inevitable, let nature take its course."  
He stepped through the portal and disappeared into the reforming  
folds of the dungeon.  
Treguard slumped into his chair. Pickle stood to one side, not daring  
to speak or move. A long moment of silence drifted past, during which  
the whole world seemed to age a little.  
Finally Treguard broke the horrible tension. "Pickle," he murmured  
softly, "I still have to deal with Mildread's warning. While I'm doing  
that, we need to let Hordriss know that he has an agreement."  
"Are you sure that you want to do this, Master?"  
Treguard looked at Pickle as though this was a stupid question, which  
of course it was. "Of course I don't want to!" he growled harshly. He  
then looked apologetic. "Sorry." He let out a breath he didn't realise  
he was holding. "Give the message to Mellisandre at the Crazed Heifer.  
She'll pass it on."  
Pickle hesitated.  
"Do as I order, Pickle."  
Pickle nodded unhappily. "Yes, Master." He soundlessly walked through  
the door and disappeared up the steps, leaving Treguard alone with his  
uncomfortable thoughts.  
Treguard sat back and closed his eyes. He'd never dared imagine  
seeing a time without Merlin to aid him, never mind being forced to  
help bring it about. He felt the pain of knowing that he was about to  
lose one of his oldest friends, but he also felt something even worse.  
Dread. Dread of an uncertain future. Even without Mogdred in it, he  
feared a future without Merlin's wisdom or power to back him. Treguard  
even doubted that what little magic he possessed could last long if  
Merlin wasn't there to renew it.  
In one way it would almost be worse that Mogdred would die with  
Merlin. At least with Mogdred there, Treguard knew what he'd be up  
against. Who or what might one day replace him, Treguard shuddered to  
imagine, and he dreaded the thought of having to find out without  
Merlin's counsel.  
Treguard suddenly opened his eyes, and found his view distorted and  
blurred. He realised after a moment that it was because there were  
tears in them. Could he really bring himself to do this? Could he even  
stand back and let someone else do the deed?  
Well. He would soon find out.  
  
To be continued... 


	3. The Chrysalis Part 2

THE CHRYSALIS  
PART II  
  
The darkness swamps around me like waves of an ocean of turgid  
blackness. It engulfs me, soaks through me... it is me. It is what I  
believe they call the Sleep of Time. It is the sleep that I sleep. The  
sleep that I will sleep for the rest of eternity. It is a rest that I  
have long awaited, and one that I dare say is well earned.  
Never again will I have to feel on my weary shoulders the burdens I  
have had to bear since the dawn of mankind. Never again will I have to  
answer to the many countless summons and demands made upon my thoughts.  
Never again will I have to hear the helpless little people with their  
ignorant little minds squealing my name in their hopeless little  
voices. Never again will I have to hear them in their moments of petty  
need calling out to me, to deal with things that, if they were worth  
the bother of helping, they would be able to handle for themselves.  
Never again will I have to hear them calling out, "Merlin!"  
Never again will I have to look up and come running whenever I hear  
someone crying, "Merlin!"  
No more, "Merlin!"  
I have almost grown to detest that name. My name. Merlin.  
"Merlin, help me with this!"  
"Merlin, how do I do that?"  
Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.  
Merlin?  
"Merlin?"  
  
* * *  
  
"Merlin!"  
A tired old sorcerer's eyes slowly rolled open and blinked rapidly,  
as though outraged by the sudden intrusion of light. They narrowed and  
widened for a few seconds, then slowly focused on the face ahead of  
them. It was a youthful face, framed by hair fair in colour, flame in  
shape. By contrast, the narrow, haunted eyes suggested an age as  
countless as that of the sorcerer himself.  
"I was beginning to think you'd started without us," sighed Pickle  
with gallows humour.  
"I'm not in that much of a hurry," promised Merlin.  
He looked about himself, and saw that he was lolling in the chair in  
front of the hearth of the Dungeon antechamber of Knightmare Castle. In  
the hearth the small flames skipped and danced before his tired old  
eyes, as though full of the naive, boundless energy of children. He  
turned away unhappily.  
"Where is Treguard?" asked Merlin voicelessly.  
"Up on the battlements," answered Pickle. "He said he needed to clear  
his head. He'll be back soon."  
Merlin swallowed a snort of derision. "Treguard needs to clear his  
head?" was what he wanted to scoff. "How do you think I feel?" But of  
course he didn't say it. After all, he fully realised that this was  
hardly going to be any easier for Treguard or Pickle than it was for  
Merlin himself. In some ways it was going to be worse, as they were  
going to have to live with the memory for the rest of their lives.  
Merlin's life, on the other hand, would soon be done. He would return  
to the nether realm where feelings like regret and guilt had no  
meaning.  
Not that the thought of eternal peace was that much of a comfort here  
and now. Peace was a gift, but what value did that have compared to the  
gift of life? The gift that he was about to surrender.  
  
* * *  
  
Treguard gazed at the haunting, pale orange glow of the horizon as  
the winter sun set into the distance. He had come up here for a taste  
of the cold, fresh air, to see the view of the northern hills that he  
knew so well and loved so much. Their delicate climb and sweep, the  
rolling green slopes. From up here he could see for miles around, all  
the glorious wooded forest, the winding blue river along the snaking  
valleys. Truth-be-told, in all of his many travels across Europe and  
beyond, he had never known any place more beautiful than this. And here  
he was, he marvelled, as its Lord and Baron.  
He had hoped that by coming up here he could stiffen his resolve,  
that the breathtaking landscape would revive him as it had on many  
occasions in the past. Perhaps it would grant him just enough vigour to  
see through the next few terrible hours.  
In truth he felt sick to the core. He couldn't believe what it was  
all coming to, and no amount of pretty scenery was ever going to make a  
jot of difference to that.  
As he gazed at the horizon, he suddenly felt, well, much too young,  
and in the worst possible way. It was the helpless, scared, confused,  
haven't-a-clue kind of young. What was he going to do without Merlin's  
quiet, stern guidance? This land he loved had bled so much, known so  
much pain. Could he be sure of protecting it from any more without  
Merlin's help?  
He breathed out a sigh that he had held for so long that it was  
making his lungs ache, then turned and headed back inside.  
  
* * *  
  
The antechamber was warm at least, that offered a little comfort.  
Treguard stood in front of the fire and warmed his hands, trying to  
ignore the expectant look Merlin was aiming in his direction from the  
chair.  
"Not long now," said Merlin unnecessarily.  
"Do you have to sound so cheerful?" complained Treguard, refusing to  
look up.  
Merlin gave him a reproachful look. "Do not confuse resignation with  
cheer, Dungeon Master," Merlin admonished him, "I am simply trying to  
do the right thing. Even if I am acceptant of it, that doesn't  
necessarily mean I'm enjoying it." Merlin got to his feet. "Tell me  
when Hordriss arrives," he said, very quietly, "there is a small matter  
I must attend to before we begin."  
Treguard nodded absently, not watching the old sorcerer walk to the  
door.  
  
* * *  
  
Mogdred sat on his throne, his whole manner composed of his own  
silence. He was calm, complacent with his anticipation, settled in his  
certainty, well fed on his power. Quiet in his own undeniable genius.  
He was magnificent. Even though just gazing on him caused her to  
tremble, Malice could never deny that her awe was as much admiration as  
fear. And she felt a lot of fear. Even now, with the necromancer sat  
back in his mighty throne, his eyes tightly closed, his thoughts buried  
in meditations so dark that they made the blackness of his ebony cloak  
seem like the light of dawn, he virtually pulsed with inhuman power  
that made Malice herself seem insignificant.  
Now he was months, perhaps just weeks, away from being the King of  
all he surveyed, from being the mightiest monarch in existence.  
And as long as Malice was careful, she would be the one who would  
serve at his side. She would remain loyal, and he would surely reward  
her with the bounties of the world. She remained silent as she watched  
the necromancer thinking his unknowable, unimaginable thoughts. She  
would serve him, she would stand by him, she would let nothing in this  
mortal world stand in his way.  
  
* * *  
  
Merlin climbed the stairs into the Castle-proper, eyeing the  
unforgiving grey walls around him undaunted. The magic of the Past  
still hung in the air here - cloying, foetid magic. It made him  
shiver when he remembered how that magic had once infected him from  
within, and had nearly conquered him, before finally giving life to  
Mogdred.  
And now, it was this magic that Merlin was going to make the ultimate  
sacrifice to destroy.  
He stopped outside the old rectory, the small chapel-room in which  
the old Baron of Dunshelm used to assemble his family to worship the  
obscure "God" of their faith.  
Merlin was a Pagan, a worshipper of the spirits of the forest and the  
rivers, not to mention a direct descendant of the druids who had  
survived the purge by the Romans, but he nonetheless understood  
Christianity very well. Indeed he probably understood it better than  
many of its own followers. He had always been baffled by the conflicts  
between Christianity and Paganism, as though the men who fought and  
died over it genuinely believed that there was any great difference  
between the faiths.  
For his part, Merlin had always believed that the many religions of  
the human world were all mostly the same and all included essential  
nuggets of the truth, they were just seeing different parts of the  
elephant, so to speak.  
Therefore Merlin felt no compunction about now entering the rectory,  
no hesitation from kneeling in front of the narrow stone altar, with  
its ornate wooden cross perched elegantly upon it, no awkwardness about  
clasping his hands together and meditating.  
"I am Leilocen," he half-murmured, his voice shaking with quiet  
emotion, "Arthur. I never let you know... never told you how proud I  
was of you. How much I loved you as the son I never had. I'm so sorry."  
There was a moment of pause. Then; - "Uther. I should have seen the  
disaster you were heading towards. I should have seen it, helped you to  
prevent it. Perhaps then you could have been the King you were meant to  
be." Again there was silence. Then; - "Morgana, you were my most able  
student. If only I had been a better teacher, you might have resisted  
the allure of the dark magic that eventually destroyed you." Next; -  
"Igrayne, I have never stopped cursing myself for what I did to you. If  
you can forgive me for helping Uther to deceive you, then you are purer  
in heart than ever I was." Then: - "Cwendalou, my King, for deserting  
you in that terrible battle with the Picts, I deserve your hatred.  
Nimue... Nimue, I am so bitterly sorry for it all..."  
"Don't be," said Treguard. Merlin was snapped out of his trance, and  
looked up to see the Dungeon Master standing in the doorway behind him.  
"Any trespasses you have committed," Treguard told him firmly, "you  
have atoned for a thousand times with your good works."  
"I will not die unconfessed, Treguard," answered Merlin.  
"If you are to confess, it must be to the living," Treguard corrected  
him, "there is very little that ghosts can do for your soul."  
"They are the ones I have trespassed against," said Merlin, a little  
stubbornly, "they are the ones to whom I must confess."  
Treguard shrugged indulgingly and nodded. If that was what Merlin  
wanted, then so be it. Treguard was not going to deprive Merlin of  
anything, not today. "As you wish," he said kindly. "As soon as you're  
ready though, Hordriss is here."  
  
* * *  
  
The Confuser looked regal, even majestic, as he stood, arms folded,  
in the middle of the Dungeon antechamber, his flowing scarlet robes  
giving him the intimidating air of a demon of fire.  
Pickle had never had much time for Hordriss, but that was fine as the  
feeling was clearly mutual. It was not very clear who Hordriss was  
exactly. All that Treguard had ever been able to reveal about him was  
that, like Merlin, he had something to do with the Druid rulers of the  
ancient Britons, though goodness only knew what.  
All that Pickle could say for sure was that Hordriss needed taking  
down a peg or two hundred. His self-worshipping haughtiness made Pickle  
want to punch his teeth in, while his utter disdain for anything  
unhuman made Pickle want to kick his rib-cage in and use it as a  
xylophone.  
Unfortunately, what with that little detail about Hordriss being far  
more powerful than Pickle and whatnot, it wasn't very likely that  
either would happen.  
"One is waiting, elfling," grumbled Hordriss impatiently. "Where is  
the sorcerer?"  
"He is right behind you," answered Merlin huffily, entering the  
chamber, followed by Treguard.  
Hordriss turned to look at Merlin and bowed slightly. "My respects to  
you, Merlin."  
"Oh stuff it," growled Merlin nastily. Hordriss' face coloured  
slightly. "You wish me dead," continued Merlin, "and you offer me your  
respects?"  
"This is not easy for one, Merlin," Hordriss objected. "One has the  
deepest admiration for all your great deeds, and one mourns that these  
deeds will not be continued in this world..."  
Merlin scoffed. "You mean Mogdred is an obstacle to your purposes and  
this is the only way that you can remove it." Merlin gave Hordriss a  
pointed look. "Don't pretend with me, Hordriss," he warned, "that your  
motivations are anything but selfish. In the end it's the right thing  
to do, I acknowledge that. But that means nothing to you. You wouldn't  
be involved at all if you didn't have something personal to gain from  
it."  
Hordriss looked at Merlin sadly. "The hostility between us can never  
be ended, it seems, even now."  
"You are what you have always been, Hordriss," sniffed Merlin. "Your  
great ancestor's most shameful offspring." He shook his head. "Toldriss  
was a man of great wisdom. He foresaw the terrible evils that would  
imperil England - the Norsemen, the Danes, the Normans. All of it."  
He pointed a bony finger at Hordriss, and painfully prodded his red-  
sleeved arm with it. "You were the beneficiary of that legacy,  
Hordriss, of his power and vision and you waste it, letting it fuel  
only your own pomposity and pride. From the nether realm I watched so  
many generations of your druid ancestry. You will be the last of that  
tradition, for you have allowed it to make you aloof. No one will  
approach you, no one will stand with you, for any who try to you  
immediately dismiss and intimidate. You have driven a permanent wedge  
between druidism and the peoples it was supposed to serve and guide. So  
when your own time comes, there will be no one for you to pass it to."  
Hordriss looked away. Treguard and Pickle were both astonished. They  
had never seen proud Hordriss shamed into looking away, never seen him  
unable to look an admonisher in the eye.  
Merlin suddenly looked tired again. "Oh why do I bother? We've had  
this discussion so many times. You never listened before, why would you  
listen now?"  
"Perhaps one has listened more than you think, Merlin," suggested  
Hordriss, "but one has to..."  
"No," said Merlin. "We both know that you are the only one who can  
replace me now, but that you will not." Hordriss looked like he was  
about to respond again, but Merlin raised a silencing hand. "No more.  
We might carry on this row for ten years but we will never agree, so  
what would be the purpose? Let us proceed with the real matter at  
hand."  
Hordriss looked at the floor sadly, then nodded. "Very well."  
Only now did Pickle finally dare to speak up. "How are we... I-I  
mean, what happens next? I mean how do...?" He suddenly wished he  
hadn't spoken up, because he was struggling to find the right words  
that could form the question without sounding hurtful to Merlin, even  
impatient to be rid of the ancient sorcerer.  
Nonetheless, Merlin understood. "My physical form must be  
dispersed," he explained, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Hordriss.  
"When that is done I and my other half will be returned to the spirit  
world. Mogdred's physical form will remain in this world, although it  
will be a lifeless husk, and no more than that."  
Treguard was shocked into realising the enormity of what he was  
hearing. This was it. It was about to be ended, his dear old friend  
would soon be no more. And Treguard was still not sure he was ready for  
it.  
  
* * *  
  
Still, Mogdred remained in his meditative trance. He was still sat on  
his throne, contemplating the infinite. He had to really, it was the  
only mental exercise that he never found boring. To have two minds  
melded into one, to have such a broad perspective meant that there was  
little that was beyond his power of calculation. After all these years,  
it meant there was little that he hadn't calculated already. He hadn't  
calculated the future with complete accuracy of course, no one could do  
that, but then he always put the future in the "contemplating-the-  
infinite" bracket anyway.  
He was content that all was progressing well. He could comfortably  
leave his hands off the engine of his designs, it was functioning  
smoothly by itself. He was still concerned to calculate exactly when  
the King would make his mistake and leave the wide-open goal Mogdred  
awaited, but there was not enough information as yet. But he continued  
to contemplate, to calculate, to consider. What dangers might there  
still be? Could anything or anyone intervene?  
No, there was only one who might have the power to do such a thing,  
the other side of himself, Merlin, and Mogdred had made many efforts to  
keep Merlin and his cohorts from learning of his insidious plans. He  
would not know, why, no one would know until it was too late. Nothing  
could stop him, nothing, not even that pain in the white beard and  
rainbow robes. Nor that other pain in a black beard and cape. Certainly  
not that elfin pain in green. Not even that irritating pain in his  
back.  
Mogdred's eyes suddenly shot open and he sat forward sharply, as the  
realisation of his own thoughts hit him. He felt around his own  
shoulders towards his back, where he felt an incredibly sharp, nagging  
pain. His hands reached and scrabbled, trying desperately to find the  
point of the sharpness, the unholy agony that seemed to be growing up  
his spine. He grunted and hissed as the pain seemed to grow and grow  
and grow, like a long powerful blade were being driven between  
vertebrae and slowly forcing them apart, and that no matter where he  
reached or how carefully he tended it, it just wouldn't stop. Indeed it  
wouldn't even slow down.  
His grunts turned gradually to howls of anguish that rattled  
vibrantly along the walls of the chamber as the pain became more  
intense and spread further and further across his body. He fell from  
his seat and slumped to his knees, writhing back and forth. He finally  
fell onto his back and tried to press it against the solid stone floor,  
hoping beyond hope that it might stem the pain. It did not.  
Malice arrived to investigate the commotion, and was astonished to  
find her Master where he was, to hear his helpless wails of distress.  
"My lord!" she cried, kneeling next to him. "What's happened?"  
She put a hand on Mogdred's shoulder. He immediately responded with a  
reflexive swing of his arm, violently casting Malice away from him.  
Malice landed heavily on the flagstones, and looked up at her Master  
through eyes full of confusion.  
"Do not dare to approach me!" thundered Mogdred, his eyes tightly  
closed, trying to fill his voice with its usual awesome menace, but  
which the pain just would not allow. He slowly forced his eyes open as  
he began to recognise the agony, to sense its source.  
"Merlin..." he growled, "Merlin, wh-what... what are you doing?"  
  
* * *  
  
The process of dispersal was captivating. The spell that Hordriss  
cast, a strange and remote incantation, was almost hypnotic. Its words  
had a strange beauty, a softness of intonation that belied their  
meaning.  
And the bright light, a pale orange aura that now engulfed Merlin,  
was rich in its colour yet soft in its composition. It was calming,  
almost soothing to behold. Except that there was no possibility of  
forgetting what it was  
Merlin was stood in the dungeon portal, shrouded in this strange,  
strange light. His eyes were closed, his head held very high, his arms  
outstretched in front of him. To Pickle's slight leeriness, Merlin  
seemed to be turning transparent. He was beginning to fade away,  
literally.  
Merlin looked peaceful. A little poignant perhaps, not exactly  
relishing the process of his own disintegration, but he was clearly not  
suffering, felt no pain. He would soon be gone.  
Gone.  
It was a word that had never sounded quite so abrupt or violent to  
Pickle as it did now. The enormity was beginning to sink in. The  
terrible yawning emptiness of Merlin's place in the world seemed to be  
speaking to him from the immediate future, and it was saying only one  
word - oblivion.  
Hordriss looked impassive as he gently conducted the magic through  
word of mouth and quiet movement of hand. In all other respects he  
remained unmovable. Treguard was sat in his seat, watching like a  
statue staring into a rainy night. His eyes were only half-open, his  
breathing imperceptible. There was no movement from the Dungeon Master  
at all, no sound, and yet still he managed to convey, without allowing  
the slightest possibility of confusion, the weary heaviness of heart he  
felt, the desolation.  
For Pickle himself, he was surprised to find that he shared that  
feeling quite so acutely. He didn't know Merlin half as well as  
Treguard did, and besides, being an elf meant that he was seldom  
subject to feelings like remorse. Regret certainly, anger perhaps, but  
outright remorse was a sentiment, and it took a lot to provoke that  
sort of thing in an elf.  
Merlin suddenly dragged Pickle out of his reverie. "It is nearly  
done," he wheezed voicelessly, "Treguard, Sickle..."  
Pickle cleared his throat slightly, but he felt that under the  
circumstances it would not do to correct the old Sorcerer. It wasn't  
the first time that Merlin had got his name wrong anyway, why worry  
about it now?  
"...Never give up, my friends," Merlin continued, lost in the  
sightless turmoil, "do not grieve. Remember that our greatest enemy  
shall die with me. Hold onto that, hold onto the future. For without  
Mogdred, the King shall fall. England will be free..."  
And suddenly it was over. Hordriss' incantations stopped, the  
beautiful fiery aura was gone. Merlin was no longer there.  
Hordriss' old shoulders slumped slightly. He suddenly looked very  
tired, and somehow melancholy.  
"It is finished." His gravelly voice sounded regretful somehow.  
"Merlin is gone to the next world. This one is done with him."  
It was over. Pickle looked around himself, eyes narrowed, feeling a  
sudden distraught tightness in his chest. No, it couldn't be over, not  
just like that. Merlin couldn't just be gone. It couldn't be so quick,  
so quiet. It seemed wrong somehow, as though it were not heroic enough  
a death for Merlin.  
As was always the case in these situations, when he needed answers to  
questions he couldn't ask, he looked to Treguard. But the old Dungeon  
Master did not return his gaze. He still hadn't moved a muscle, still  
hadn't said a word. All that had changed was a slight watering of his  
eyes. He was holding back tears of uncertainty, and tears of grief.  
Uncertainty of the future, grief for the loss of an old friend.  
Merlin was dead.  
  
* * *  
  
Some way below, and many miles south, in Mogdred's throne room, there  
was another great passing. The necromancer was still stricken on the  
floor, now engulfed in a potent aura of white fury.  
Malice, hand over mouth, could do nothing but stand on the other side  
of the room, recoiling in fear at the maelstrom of mystical power that  
was consuming her Master. His screams had stopped but it was all too  
clear that his anguish hadn't. He still writhed, still struggled, and  
tears of pain were forming at the sides of his eyes. But Malice could  
not try to interfere now that she'd been ordered not to.  
The whiteness of the maelstrom became thicker, more opaque. And the  
more it intensified, the less Mogdred moved. Or more precisely, the  
less he was able to move.  
One of his eyes, slowly, awkwardly, rolled open, and aimed in the  
direction of Malice. There was something in the gleam of his eye,  
perhaps a mute appeal, perhaps a dereliction of his own sense of  
authority, but whatever it was, Malice suddenly sensed that his pride  
and defiance were no longer there, as though Mogdred were finally  
acknowledging that he needed her help. Whatever the case, Malice felt  
she could remain silent no longer.  
"My Lord," she insisted, "you must let me help you. Whatever's  
happening, you can't stop it. Maybe I can."  
The maelstrom was now so dense that Mogdred was scarcely visible  
within it. He couldn't move at all, he couldn't speak, he even seemed  
to be having trouble breathing.  
Malice reasoned that he couldn't stop her from interfering either  
way, and anyway she had to help. She immediately strode over to her  
Master, stood above him and raised her arms, letting a pulse of fire  
dance from the tips of her fingers and propelled them toward his face.  
This energy soaked its way into the engulfing power, trying to examine  
it, to inform Malice of its nature.  
The power of the maelstrom turned black and distorted. It reached out  
a tendril, a strand of ebony fire, toward Malice. The tendril swung and  
struck the sorceress across the cheek. She was thrown aside with  
sickening force. The tendril sunk back into the maelstrom.  
An instant later there was a bright flash of light. Malice was just  
trying to sit up, but the light was so powerful she had to cover her  
eyes with the arm that she was propping herself up with, and slumped  
back onto the ground.  
Malice let out a cry, more of apprehension than pain, then shook her  
head repeatedly and violently. She opened her eyes, and blinked  
rapidly, trying to disperse the dark blinding cloud from her retinas.  
After a moment her vision cleared and she looked over to Mogdred. She  
let out another gasp of concern. Something had changed again, something  
even more disconcerting.  
Where Mogdred had been lying, absorbed in agonising, unknowable  
power, there was now visible only one thing. It was human shaped, at  
least vaguely. But it was evidently not human, even in the very broad  
sense that would apply to a necromancer. It instead looked stony and  
warped, solid but formless, like once-molten lava after it has cooled  
for days.  
Malice got to her feet and took several cautious steps toward this  
bizarre mass. Even more carefully, she reached out a nervous hand  
toward the object. To her touch it felt both colder and far smoother  
than it looked. Even somewhat light and brittle.  
In fact, it felt vaguely like some kind of a honeycomb. But that was  
as far as it went to resembling anything sweet.  
  
* * *  
  
Some situations crop up so many times over in most people's lives  
that the experience teaches them to develop special rules to handle  
each one. Unwritten rules perhaps, but still woe betide anyone who  
might stray from them.  
For instance, over the years experience had taught Motley that on the  
first three dates the lady should always have everything her own way,  
that one should never drink mead unless it's the only drink of the  
evening, that one should never, ever, under any circumstances, make  
jokes with Norman soldiers, and most important of all, one should never  
take a shortcut at night. These guidelines were the products of  
experience and common sense. Motley never once thought to doubt or  
dispute them.  
Sadly, this did not mean he would actually follow any of them,  
especially not that last one. In truth he was quite capable of taking  
shortcuts at night just because it had started raining, or if he was  
feeling a bit cold.  
Such it was this night. He was feeling a wee bit sozzled as he left  
the Crazed Heifer this windy evening, having managed to scavenge the  
usual few drinks off of Brother Mace - always so easy to manipulate  
with ale pot in hand - and he was heading back to the Castle through  
the dank unlit paths of the Dunwood, unsteadily carrying his lamp and  
humming his favourite song, "Zen and the Art of Formation Hippo  
Dancing." (NOTE: This wasn't the real title of his favourite song, it  
was just that it always became that after he'd had a couple too many.)  
The rain had started while he'd been drinking his blues away, and the  
ground was muddy and cutting up beneath his feet. So he decided to step  
off the path and take a shortcut through the relative shelter of the  
trees.  
He was to get away with it of course, indeed he wasn't even to get  
into danger from it, but that was entirely down to luck, and in no way  
down to judgement. And more to the point, something scary still  
happened.  
He started by stepping round two trees, taking a quick left, ducking  
round another tree and finding himself... back on the path again.  
Motley stared at the ground in front of him, as though it were a  
thing of alien powers. "Damn these three point turns," he muttered to  
himself. "Who'da thought they'd always go straight back the way you  
came?"  
He then tried stepping off the path and through the trees again. He  
stepped around one, then found another, a precarious birch, right  
ahead. He stumbled towards it resolutely, trying to stare it down, but  
mysteriously it showed no inclination to let him pass. Even so he  
carried on walking toward it.  
Motley let out a hiccup. "I'm bettin' you'll swerve first," he told  
the tree defiantly. He was to experience disappointment, not to mention  
pain, when it manifestly failed to be intimidated, and instead bumped  
into his nose, rather hard.  
Motley rubbed his nose. "Ow," he mentioned. The tree ignored him, so  
admitting defeat, Motley made the tricky but necessary thermodynamic  
calculations that would allow him to walk around the obstruction, and  
then hurt his nose again when his legs failed to follow the  
instructions correctly and carried him straight forward into the side  
of the tree once more.  
"Ow," Motley repeated. Again the tree didn't seem to be listening.  
"Bloody trees," scowled the jester. "I hope Treguard comes down here  
and makes you into firewood!"  
As an afterthought, he gave the tree an unfriendly punch.  
The following morning, Motley would of course dismiss it as just  
delusions of liquor, but the tree then appeared to open two previously  
unnoticed large eyes about half way up its trunk, and look down at him  
sadly. A mouth formed a little way below them, and in a hauntingly  
familiar voice, it said, "Do not strike us. We've died once already  
this day."  
Motley stood rooted to the spot, just staring at the tree, for he  
didn't know how long. He finally shook his head, said "Naaah," to  
himself, and stumbled on through the trees back to Dunshelm.  
  
* * *  
  
Dawn the following morning was grey and dark, as though the soul had  
been taken out of the sun before it rose. If so, Treguard could  
identify with it all too easily. He was feeling shattered, as the sheer  
bleak enormity of what had happened the previous evening had sunk in  
all too quickly and all too easily.  
The worst thing was that he felt completely calm about it. It was a  
terrible, cold calm, the sort of calm that people feel when they have  
absolutely nothing left, when they are too drained to feel what they  
think. He didn't like feeling like this. He wanted to be angry, or to  
cry, or just to smile at happier memories. But he could do none of  
these things, for he felt nothing. His mind wanted to acknowledge  
nothing.  
No, now that he thought about it, there was something. Not much,  
certainly nothing positive, but there was still something, and he  
needed it, he needed to feel something. No matter how little it was, no  
matter how bad it was, he needed to feel something, as he couldn't cope  
with the aching emotional vacuum any longer. So he reached for this  
small spark, grasped it, clung to it determinedly, and tried to open it  
up, like a child eagerly opening a present.  
And having grasped it, having identified it, here was what he  
discovered it to be - anger. Anger at Hordriss for conceiving the  
terrible plan to destroy Merlin. Anger at Mogdred for making the plan  
necessary. Anger at Merlin for allowing Mogdred to exist in the first  
place. Anger at himself for... well, for being there at all in fact -  
it was human nature at these times to blame oneself, even if there's  
no reason to. Anger made him feel less powerless, and it might be a  
strong enough emotion to awaken his other, more dormant feelings.  
Treguard raised himself from his hammock, pulled himself to his feet,  
and hauled on his tunic and cloak. Today was the first day of the real  
struggle, the struggle to defend England, without Merlin's aid, from  
King John. At least the loss of Merlin meant that John would no longer  
have aid from Mogdred. That gave real hope, and if Hordriss could bring  
himself to follow Merlin's last wishes, and finally side with the  
Northguard, perhaps the balance might even be tipped in Treguard's  
favour.  
This train of thought started to lighten Treguard's mood a little,  
letting through a few rays of sunlight to melt the previous icy  
restraints on his heart.  
Yes, there was much to fight for, much to build for. The future most  
of all, and it was Treguard's duty to make sure that Merlin's sacrifice  
would be an avenue to the greater good.  
  
* * *  
  
Pickle entered the scullery, and just as he expected, it was here  
that he found the jester curled up at the foot of the steps, sleeping  
noisily - didn't he always? Motley's outfit, never the cleanest item  
of clothing in Christendom, had a dried-on staleness, the telltale  
indicator that its wearer had been walking in the rain the previous  
evening.  
Pickle carefully stepped down to the slumbering fool and gently,  
delicately, ever so mildly, kicked him in the ribs.  
"Ow!" yelped Motley, certainly not for the first time that week, as  
he sprang to his feet. Affronted, he gave the elf an angry shove. As it  
turned out, as Motley was still half-asleep he didn't aim the push  
quite right, with the result that it hurt his own arm more than any  
part of Pickle's anatomy. "Ow!" Motley yelped again, cradling the  
wounded appendage just as a fresh, sharper stab of pain kicked in  
across his temples, as his hangover loudly announced itself to his  
brain. "Ow!" he yelped yet again, putting his hand to his forehead.  
"What'd you do that for?"  
"Oh, so you can say things other than 'Ow!' then?" noted Pickle,  
intrigued.  
Motley was about to reply with a witty retort, but his headache  
wouldn't allow it, so he just sat down heavily on the steps. "What time  
is it?" he demanded weakly.  
Pickle shrugged. "Dawn was about half an hour ago."  
"Ooh," groaned Motley, "what'd you wake me up so early for?"  
Pickle grabbed Motley's arm and tried to haul him to his feet. "A  
lot's happened in the last couple of days," he explained, "and the  
Master needs to speak to everyone urgently. Including you."  
"Why?" asked Motley, hauling himself up again with exaggerated  
slowness. "What's 'appened?"  
Pickle shook his head. "Just follow me, Motley," he said impatiently.  
"The Master will explain. Come on, everyone's waiting for us."  
Pickle started to climb back up the steps. Motley frowned. Pickle  
always sounded exactly as serious as the situation demanded. For him to  
sound as serious as this meant that something big was up. With the ache  
clumsily working its way around his head, Motley didn't feel like he  
was up to hearing it, whatever it was. But, Treguard was the Dungeon  
Master, if he said he had something for everyone to hear, everyone was  
going to hear it, simple as that.  
Motley breathed out a loud, exhausted sigh, and followed Pickle up  
the steps.  
  
* * *  
  
Most of the castle's regular occupants, the men-at-arms, the serving  
staff, were in the antechamber when Pickle and Motley arrived, not to  
mention a number of people from the neighbouring area.  
The elf, Lady Velda of Anwin Wood was stood near the door, dagger  
drawn, eyeing everyone about her with her usual nervous suspicion.  
Mellisandre smiled at Motley from where she was sat on one of the  
benches by the table. Glad to recognise someone here whom he could say  
with some confidence was actually a friend, Motley quickly tiptoed over  
and sat next to her.  
Elsewhere in the room stood Brother Mace (who was giving Motley a  
disapproving look, no doubt a carryover from the drinks that he,  
Motley, had coaxed out of him the previous evening), and a tall, lithe  
looking woman in a green jerkin, which Motley recognised as the  
traditional livery of the Forest Green Wardens.  
Treguard, looking grave, was sat in his seat, clearly impatient to  
begin. Hordriss the Confuser was stood next to him, arms folded, his  
expression full of all of his usual proud regality.  
"Thank you, Pickle," the Dungeon Master nodded stiffly while the elf  
seated himself, cross-legged, in the middle of the table. "There's no  
easy way to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it. Merlin is  
gone."  
There were a few nervous looks between the occupants of the room as  
he said this, not outright consternation perhaps, but equally not  
welcoming what they were hearing either.  
"What exactly do you mean by 'gone,' Dungeon Master?" asked Mace,  
carefully. "Do you mean he has gone on pilgrimage, or something more  
extreme, perhaps?"  
"I think you already know what I mean, Mace," answered Treguard.  
"Let's just say we won't be seeing him in the dungeon of this  
particular castle again. Or in any castle in this world."  
Now the nervous mutterings did turn to general consternation.  
Treguard politely raised a hand to ask for silence. "It was his own  
decision to move on to the next world," he explained, skating over the  
details somewhat, "and he has given us a bonus."  
"What is that?" demanded Velda, in the sort of overly expressive  
crouch she typically adopted at any time of anticipation.  
"Mogdred is gone as well."  
The consternation among the gathering changed to curiosity.  
"Why do you say that?" asked the Green Warden. "What makes you so  
sure?"  
Treguard shrugged. "Mogdred was the yang to Merlin's yin, Gwendoline.  
There could not be one without the other. Merlin's departure from this  
world will have precipitated Mogdred's."  
There was now a general hum of excitement and approval from the  
gathering. All those present were clearly most encouraged by these  
tidings. Not one of them seemed to question or doubt the certainty of  
what Treguard was saying.  
Motley was embarrassed. He was very much one of the minor leaguers  
present. He knew a lot less about sorcery than the heavyweights about  
him, and their certainty made him reluctant to speak up. But he did so  
anyway.  
"Just a sec," he coughed slightly.  
The hum of delight around the chamber died away as everybody turned  
their attention to the scruffy, hungover jester sat hunched on the  
bench, his arm raised in meek appeal.  
"Er, 'scuse me," he said a little more loudly, hoping it would add a  
touch more authority into his voice. It didn't.  
"Yes, Motley?" asked Treguard gently.  
"Um..." he stammered. "Look I don't wanna spoil the atmosphere," he  
started a little weakly, "it's just..."  
"Yes?"  
"Well, are you actually sure that Mogdred's gone as well?"  
Treguard looked at him indulgingly. "The whole point of his passing  
was to take Mogdred with him to the next world, Motley."  
"I see," said Motley.  
Treguard nodded, assuming that he had settled that. "Now..." he  
continued, only to be interrupted by another polite cough from Motley.  
Treguard gave the jester a surprised look. "What is it now?"  
Motley could feel his cheeks absorbing the boiling heat of the stares  
from the other, more powerful occupants of the room. "Um, well, no  
disrespect, guv'nor," he said, "but... um, you don't seem to have  
answered my question. Are you sure that Mogdred's gone?"  
Treguard began to look annoyed. "What do you mean?"  
Motley realised that he had already got everyone angry, so no harm in  
carrying on now. "I mean has anyone actually checked?"  
"Checked?"  
"Well yeah," nodded Motley. " The whole idea was to get rid of 'im, I  
understand that. But have you made sure it worked?"  
Hordriss looked at the jester, appalled at his impertinence. "What  
are you implying now, fool?" he rasped. "That one's powers are  
inadequate to..."  
"No," protested Motley. This was all he needed, Hordriss choosing to  
take everything personally again. "I'm not saying they're inadequate.  
I'm saying that they're magical. In my experience that means they're  
not very reliable."  
"Your experience?" snorted Hordriss. "You presume to advise one such  
as I on the art of high magic?! That would be like consulting a new-  
born baby about the art of parenting."  
"I'm just asking," said Motley, all too conscious of the aggravation  
he was causing those all around him. "Has anyone checked?"  
"Well," admitted Treguard reluctantly, "no."  
All at once, everybody stopped glowering at Motley and stared  
pointedly at Treguard and Hordriss.  
"What did you say?" demanded Velda. "You mean the harlequin is  
correct? You have not investigated yet?"  
Motley had never been referred to as a harlequin before, and he found  
it to be a rather uplifting description, certainly a step up in class  
from the downbeat "jester", and a meteoric rise from the appallingly  
condescending "fool." He didn't have time to bask in this small glory  
however.  
"Treguard," sniffed Mace, "we cannot afford to be so casual. We have  
to make sure you've succeeded. Fighting Mogdred was difficult enough  
when we were ready for him. If we just assume success, then if he has  
survived he'll destroy us..."  
"Aye," chimed in one of the men-at-arms, "especially if Merlin can't  
help us anymore!"  
Everyone else in the room clearly had something to add to this, and  
within seconds the whole discussion had descended into a chaotic  
clamour of shouts, complaints, protests and counter protests, all  
uttered over each other.  
Any satisfaction Motley felt at having successfully made his point,  
and even won people over with it, was fleeting. The sudden tangle of  
shouted voices was making his hangover worse and worse, and he was  
beginning to wish he'd kept his mouth shut.  
Mellisandre nudged him and gestured toward the door. Motley nodded,  
so they got to their feet and, keeping their heads down, walked out.  
Once they were on the steps and beyond the worst of the clamour, they  
stopped to talk.  
Motley pinched the bridge of his nose tenderly. He really needed to  
do something about this hangover. "Any chance of some water?" he asked  
hopefully.  
"Of course there is," said Mellisandre. "You know where the horse  
trough is by now don't you?" Motley scowled at her, but she didn't seem  
to notice. "You sounded pretty worried in there."  
"Mogdred's Mogdred," answered Motley.  
"Only if he's still alive," Mellisandre pointed out with her usual  
pedantic precision, "otherwise, he was Mogdred."  
"Whatever," said Motley. "The point is, Mace is right. We can't take  
any chances with Mogdred, we 'ave to be sure."  
Mellisandre gave him one of her most winning grins. "All right," she  
stated, arms folded, the classic hallmark of Mellisandre when she meant  
business, "then sure we will be. We'll go and find out. Last one  
outside's second to the door."  
She immediately turned and galloped up the steps. Motley watched her  
go and shook his head. Now he really wished he'd kept his mouth shut.  
He sighed once more then hurried after her. He didn't notice Pickle,  
suspicion in his elfin eyes, furtively bounding up the steps behind  
him.  
  
* * *  
  
Malice was still at a loss. She had studied the strange mass in  
closest detail for hours, and was unable to gain any clear insights.  
She could find no seams or weak points in its surface, no lines of  
sight, be it for her eyes or her magic, to study the interior. It was  
also a lot harder to break than she'd originally believed. What she was  
now certain of was that this was not what was left of Mogdred. It was  
the same energy that had been engulfing him at the outset. Somehow it  
had frozen into a solid form.  
In other words, Mogdred was almost certainly inside it.  
Malice realised that she wasn't going to get anywhere like this. And  
all of a sudden she wasn't sure she wanted to. Only now did it occur to  
her that this might not be a disaster for her. No, it might even be an  
opportunity. She had been so in awe of Mogdred ever since he had taken  
her under his wing that she had started to forget the reason why she  
had sided with him in the first place - her own ambitions. And how  
better to serve them than by succeeding the mighty necromancer? In any  
case, she told herself, Mogdred was surely dead now anyway.  
She smiled and nodded to herself, ignoring that lingering doubt that  
said this was more wishful thinking than belief. She snapped her  
fingers.  
"Fatilla!" she called out.  
Through the door blundered the familiar figure of the ungainly,  
heavyweight barbarian with red bandana and droopy moustache. "Yus?" he  
asked in a tone of such slurred incoherence that it indicated with  
astonishing precision the exact degree of mental agility he had to  
offer.  
"Get rid of that," Malice instructed, pointing in the vague direction  
of the... whatever-it-was. So far it hadn't occurred to her to figure  
out a name for the object. Hardly a big priority, but it would be  
convenient. Well, a "whatever-it-was" would do for now.  
Fatilla looked in the indicated direction blankly, then walked over,  
picked up the table and threw it through the door. He looked at Malice  
and smiled, expecting praise for a fast job well done. Instead she just  
looked annoyed.  
"No, idiot!" she growled, wondering why Mogdred had ever recruited  
this Neanderthal man. "I meant that thing. There!"  
She pointed at the whatever-it-was.  
"Yus," slurped the barbarian, and hobbled over to the whatever-it-  
was, picking it up with impressively little effort. It looked like he  
was about to throw it through the door as well.  
"No!" snapped Malice hurriedly. Fatilla remained motionless where he  
was, still holding the whatever-it-was above his head. "Carry it out.  
And get that table back in here."  
Fatilla nodded obediently and lumbered to the door, occasionally  
tottering under the weight of the whatever-it-was. As soon as he was  
one step beyond the door, he threw the whatever-it-was. It landed with  
a loud crash in the passageway outside, on top of a pile of old weapons  
- rusty swords and pieces of damaged armour mainly. The clatter of  
the frozen maelstrom meeting metal echoed along the passage and back  
again for long moments, during which Malice rolled her eyes.  
Then Fatilla picked up the table, lumbered over to the door, and  
hurled it back into the throne room. Malice closed her eyes ruefully as  
the table split into two on impact with the merciless flagstones of the  
floor. Malice turned toward Fatilla, and smiled sweetly at him.  
"Thank you, Fatilla," she said kindly, and then shot a miniature bolt  
of lightning at him. The lightning hit Fatilla square on the bottom,  
and he howled with pain, running from the room in a mad panic.  
Malice sighed. Now that she was in charge, there were going to be big  
changes around here. There had to be. Starting with some more useful  
hired muscles.  
Still, that she could sort out a bit later. For now, it was time to  
make herself properly at home. She smiled to herself as she walked over  
to the throne that she had secretly coveted for all the time she had  
served Mogdred, and which was now hers. She seated herself and sat  
back, making herself almost obscenely comfortable. The throne was a  
little on the large side for her, but she could deal with that with the  
application of a few cushions. Other than that she found it most  
comfortable. It was very... her. She felt she was going to rather enjoy  
this.  
She clicked her fingers again, this time to summon all of the goons  
in Mogdred's former employ. Now in her employ.  
Outside the room, completely beyond her attention of course, lay the  
frozen maelstrom on the pile of discarded weapons. Also beyond her  
attention was the fact that the force of the impact had caused a small  
crack to develop in the object's surface, a chink in its pattern. And  
from it there now leaked the tiniest, palest shimmer of light, which  
slowly spread across the metallic fragments upon which it rested.  
  
* * *  
  
Mellisandre was already outside Dunshelm's walls before Motley caught  
up with her. He didn't know where she was going or what she was  
planning to do, and that should have made Motley reluctant to follow  
her. Instead of course, his curiosity, and the natural worry that Melly  
was going to get into trouble and need help - always a possibility -  
were too strong for him to resist.  
"Where are you going?" he panted as he finally managed to get into  
pace next to her, as she ran down the slope toward the outskirts of the  
Dunwood.  
"Do you remember Ross?" said Mellisandre, not breaking her stride.  
"Ross?" boggled Motley. "Er, 'ang on wasn't he a dungeoneer?"  
"That's right."  
"He tried to free you when Morghanna kidnapped you didn't he?"  
"So you do remember," nodded Mellisandre, satisfied. "I managed to  
escape on my own in the end," she continued, "but I did more than that  
besides."  
"You did?"  
"I stole something from her," explained Mellisandre as they reached  
the foot of the slope and entered the canopy of foliage of the wood.  
"Mogdred was so furious with her when he found out it was gone that he  
banished her for it."  
"Ah," said Motley, "that explains a few things. What was it?"  
"Something very dangerous," answered Melly. "It was a kind of strange  
magical viewing device that Mogdred was developing. He hadn't completed  
it, but it uses a similar magic to that Eye-Shield thing that the  
dungeoneers are so fond of."  
She suddenly came to a halt by a large elm tree. She walked around it  
until she found what she was looking for, a small marking in chalk on  
the bark halfway up the trunk.  
"I buried it here," she continued, "because I knew it'd be easier for  
Mogdred to sense it if I hung on to it, or if, heaven forbid, I tried  
to use it."  
She stood with her back to the tree, right in front of the mark, and  
took three long paces forward. On the third pace she dug her heel into  
the ground, then pulled at the loose soil of the ground with her hands  
until she unearthed something wrapped in a large cloth.  
"Here it is," she stated proudly, lifting the concealed object. She  
unwrapped it to reveal something that looked like nothing more  
remarkable than a rather large magnifying glass with an ornate metal  
frame.  
"That's it?" said Motley, unimpressed. "You dragged us all this way  
for a magnifying glass?"  
"It's not a magnifying glass," retorted Mellisandre.  
"No? Well what is it then?"  
"Morghanna called it a spyglass."  
"Spyglass?" Motley looked doubtful. "What does it do?"  
Mellisandre gave him an impatient look. "It deep-fries blue haddock,"  
she answered witheringly. "It spies on people, what do you think it  
does?!"  
"Oh," nodded Motley dumbly. "Yeah, of course." Motley rubbed his jaw  
as a thought struck him. "Melly, why didn't you tell anyone about this  
thing before?"  
Mellisandre shrugged. "Didn't want to."  
"Didn't want to?" scoffed Motley. "But can you imagine how useful one  
of these things could be? If Treguard could make a few more of them,  
they could give us a real edge."  
"And in the meantime," said Mellisandre, holding up the spyglass,  
"Mogdred would be able to blow up anyone holding onto it." She shook  
her head. "No, I hid this thing because it's dangerous as long as  
Mogdred is still alive. Now that he may not be, it may be safe to use  
it, at least to check."  
Motley considered this. "Okay, I guess that makes sense."  
"We should be able to use this to spy on its original home and see if  
Mogdred's still there," continued Mellisandre, offering him the  
spyglass. "Care to do the honours?"  
Motley put his palms forward in polite refusal."Oh no, no I couldn't  
possibly. You were the one who stole it, the glory's yours, so the  
honour of being the first to use it should be yours too."  
But Mellisandre still proffered the spyglass. "Oh, no need to be  
gallant, Motley, take it, and have fun. I insist."  
Motley crossed his arms stubbornly. "No, ladies first."  
"Don't be so old-fashioned," argued Mellisandre, trying to sound  
kindly but unable to hide her nerves. "Go on, after you..."  
  
"I'll take it," said an elfin voice. Once their hearts had resumed  
beating a moment later, they turned to see Pickle standing off to one  
side, shaking his head and giving them disdainful looks for their  
cowardice.  
"What are you doing here?" demanded Mellisandre.  
Pickle stepped forward and snatched the spyglass from her grasp. "I  
followed you. I was wondering what you two ran off in such a hurry  
for." He looked the glass up and down. "Now I know. We should let the  
Master see this."  
Mellisandre was about to object when Motley cut in. "He's right,  
Mel," he said. "If anyone'll know what to do Treguard will."  
  
* * *  
  
Malice had been kept waiting a full ten minutes and more before all  
her underlings had arrived, and for some reason that made her furious.  
She wasn't pleased with herself for over-reacting, it wasn't good to  
let her new authority go to her head so quickly.  
The assembled arrow fodder was mainly made up of goblins. Malice  
couldn't help feeling it was time she got a full time trainer to keep  
some of these revolting scavengers in line, especially those two at the  
front. What did they call themselves again? Oh yes, Grippa and Rhark.  
Right pair of savages.  
Also Fatilla had returned, giving Malice a lot of confused and wary  
looks.  
Malice stood and raised her arms. "All of you shall now kneel," she  
commanded.  
No response from anyone.  
"I said kneel," she repeated.  
The gathered minions looked at her blankly, and exchanged doubtful  
glances.  
"Don't you understand?" she seethed, lowering her arms. "I am your  
new leader."  
More blank looks, even a few sceptical ones. Once again, Malice could  
see how much she needed to change things, get some new personnel in to  
replace the mindless dolts that Mogdred, in his insecurity, had always  
preferred.  
In fact, the more Malice was getting to see the machinery of  
Mogdred's command from the inside, the more she was starting to wonder  
why she had been so in awe of him. Every logistical decision, every  
organisational move, every strategic selection he had made now seemed  
to smack entirely of paranoia. The only agents with any noticeable  
intelligence or initiative he'd had on his side were Malice herself and  
Morghanna, as though he were scared that he was recruiting potential  
conspirators, and that he'd have less difficulty keeping an eye on just  
the one.  
On the whole, Malice was beginning to suspect that Mogdred had been  
every bit as dishevelled and insecure as the King he'd spoken of with  
such contempt.  
Well, that was all over now. Things were going to change, and she,  
Malice, was the one who was going to change them. And in order to get  
some co-operation from this bunch of useless wastrels, it was time,  
ironically enough, to use one of the finest tools Mogdred had ever  
taught her to use. Not the pain of reprisals, but the fear of  
reprisals.  
"Mogdred is dead!" she proclaimed loudly, her portentous voice full  
of authoritative menace. She thought for a moment that she'd heard a  
cheer from somewhere, but looking around she saw no one celebrating, so  
she continued. "You, all of you, now belong solely and expressly to me.  
Your very lives, your future existence, are held entirely in tribute to  
me. Your destinies and dreams can be forfeit at my slightest whim. You  
should all consider that most thoughtfully. Observe..."  
Malice raised her hand and a small ball of liquid fire shot from her  
palm and struck one of the goblins. In the few seconds remaining to it,  
it gave an agonised squeal as it was engulfed from tip to toe in  
flames. It took just seconds for the fire to burn itself out, at the  
end of which the blackened and ravaged corpse fell to the floor,  
crumbling to dust.  
The others all stared in silent, numb horror at the ashes on the  
floor. They were clearly terrified. Good.  
"I hope I've left none of you in any doubt," said Malice coolly. "Now  
kneel."  
One by one, every one of her followers sank to their knees. Malice  
smiled an evil smile. Yes, they all understood now. The application of  
fear could provide such remarkable clarity. Furthermore, she realised  
that she rather enjoyed applying it too.  
  
* * *  
  
Treguard was watching, as was Hordriss and a number of others.  
The initial reaction when Pickle had presented them with the spyglass  
was puzzlement. The next was anger that Mellisandre had chosen to  
conceal this precious artifact for all this time, no matter how honest  
her intention had been.  
The reaction, as they gazed through the spyglass upon the peculiar  
gathering of Malice's mob of thieves, had changed to elation when they  
heard the confirmation that they'd wanted - Mogdred was dead. A cheer  
had gone up from several of the men-at-arms in the chamber, only to be  
silenced quickly under prompting from Hordriss, who quietly indicated  
that Malice would be able to hear them through the spyglass just as  
easily as they could hear her. For a moment her expression suggested  
that she had heard them, but then she continued lecturing her  
followers.  
The reaction then turned to quiet disgust as Malice cooked one of her  
goblins alive with a fireball.  
Treguard then handed the spyglass over to Hordriss, who quickly  
severed the connection to Malice's throne room.  
"Most intriguing," commented Hordriss. "Malice will hardly be so  
great an obstacle to any of our interests as Mogdred was."  
Treguard hesitated just briefly before answering. "Perhaps not." He  
pushed past a couple of people and resumed his seat. "For now, I must  
consider other matters."  
"Namely?" asked Velda, her voice again full of bizarre, unfounded  
suspicions.  
"My stance against Mogdred was as much a battle against the Normans,"  
Treguard admitted. "Now that his most powerful ally is gone, I have an  
opportunity to turn my attention to King John himself, and his  
forthcoming Magna Carta. But if I don't do that soon, all this may mean  
little."  
There was also the ongoing matter of Mildread's warning, but before  
he could mention that, Velda sniffed dismissively, clearly no longer  
interested. "These are mortal matters you speak of. They are of no  
concern to my people. I will take my leave now, and report your success  
against the necromancer to my liege." She turned to leave.  
Treguard looked up at her, amused by her polite rudeness. "So be it.  
Oh, and please give my regards to Arawn. Tell him I'd be delighted to  
come round and discuss old times with him... next time I have need for  
someone with a life debt."  
Velda glanced over her shoulder at the Dungeon Master and smiled as  
though she actually recognised the joke. She still had little time for  
her King, even though there had recently been some kind of  
reconciliation between them. "Farewell," she grunted, and disappeared  
through the door.  
With that, Treguard clearly decided that matters had been settled for  
the time being. He got to his feet. "Well everybody, I believe that's  
all for now. It's a sad day, but also a time of opportunity. Thank you  
for attending at such short notice."  
The rest of the assembled people nodded and began slowly to file out.  
Soon only Treguard, Pickle, Motley and Mellisandre were left. They all  
sat in a strange, deafening silence for a while. Eventually, Pickle  
broke the silence.  
"We're all waiting for Merlin to tell us what we should do next,  
aren't we?"  
"Yes, sprite," nodded Treguard gently. "I think we are."  
They wouldn't realise it, any of them, but their next course of  
action wasn't what would have concerned Merlin nearly as much as one of  
their previous ones. For although they could never have known it, they  
would have done well to watch Malice's gathering a little longer.  
  
* * *  
  
Malice was sat on the throne - her throne. It felt good to be able  
to say that. She was now alone, which, considering the level of  
conversation that goblins were generally capable of, was a considerable  
improvement.  
She was content. Well not content, as such, but she felt the pride of  
achievement and the tingle of anticipation of what that achievement now  
made possible for her. She had not only learned from Mogdred, she had  
outlived him, and soon she would outdo him.  
She had learned the art of patience, she had learned the art of fear,  
she had learned the art of power, all from Mogdred. But she would do  
far more than him, for she had none of his weaknesses. She would not be  
afraid to take the chances that he had spurned. She would not  
undervalue the qualities of others, she would not make the arrogant  
mistake of depending on herself alone, she would exploit what she could  
from her underlings, she would...  
Her mental rant suddenly came grinding to a halt as she heard  
something. No, no not heard something. Felt something. That was it. She  
felt a presence, not in this room, but close. Something powerful, but  
confused, something with great knowledge, but that showed no  
understanding of it.  
Something that might be useful perhaps? Well, either it was an  
opportunity or it was something to worry about. But one way or the  
other, Malice was not going to do well by sitting still, so she quickly  
got to her feet and hurried to the door.  
As soon as she got there it grabbed her, held her by the throat and  
lifted her bodily from her feet. She was so taken by surprise, so  
totally unprepared for it, that initially she could only manage the  
barest glimpse at it.  
That glimpse was all she needed to know that she didn't want to see  
it. It was hideous.  
It was a humanoid skeleton. Vast in frame, imposing in stature,  
powerful in presence. It was immense, and it was horrifying, and yet to  
her evil side it was also, in some perverse way, beautiful. Its eyes  
glowed the darkest repugnant red. Its face was empty of flesh but full  
of hate.  
And yet, remarkable as these details were, they were not what she  
noticed most about this creature. What astounded her, horrified her,  
appalled her, was what it was not, namely flesh or bone. It was  
neither.  
This apparition of skeletal devilry was made of metal. Every bone in  
its hideous biological jigsaw was not a bone at all, it was a lace of  
metal.  
And then it spoke, and Malice wanted to die, just so as to be sure  
that she would never have to hear it again. For its voice was composed  
of violence, of every way of inflicting pain known to mankind and  
beyond, and Malice was feeling every nuance of that pain with every  
syllable.  
"Fear..." the creature gurgled hideously. "I taste... fear. You...  
you are... fear. Your life force... laced with fear... I will drink  
your life force... will live again... will taste your fear... will live  
it..."  
And the creature slowly pulled Malice toward the ghastly rictus of  
its bony mouth. Malice found she could not fight, could not resist. She  
was so enveloped in her own terror, as though the creature knew how to  
increase it, that she could not try to respond, she could only stare  
straight ahead.  
Malice would never find out for sure what her killer was of course,  
but before she died, she did get a clue in the shape of the strange  
object that Mogdred had been cocooned in. It was now broken up into  
large pieces, like the shell of a hatched egg. The pile of old weapons  
that the object had landed on had disappeared.  
All that there was now was this horror, this metallic apparition of  
fear that now had her totally in its power, and whose mouth even now  
was closing toward her own.  
She felt the most terrible retch of disgust as the fleshless mouth  
touched upon her lips, then she felt a coldness that rapidly spread  
from them across her face, then along her neck, then all over her, as  
the creature drank her life force.  
Then she died.  
  
To be concluded... 


	4. The Chrysalis Part 3

THE CHRYSALIS  
PART III  
  
It was Mordred's thirst for life that was so incredible. Even the  
uncle he hated so much, Arthur, had never hidden his admiration for the  
boundless energy that Mordred had always possessed, even after he  
turned it to the ways of evil.  
His thirst could be quenched in any number of ways, but they would  
only ever be temporary, and always cruel - be they through explosions  
of red-faced anger, through his love of inflicting pain, through the  
seductive delicacy of instilling fear or through the acquisition of ill-  
gotten power and wealth, his instinct was always to empower himself  
through the suffering of others.  
So it was now. He was dead, long dead in fact. But such was his  
thirst for life that his instinct had found the power to live again  
through the evil half of the sorcerer Merlin and the magic of the  
demonic Gruagach. Thus he was reborn as the necromancer, Mogdred.  
Now Merlin was dead, and inevitably Mogdred had died with him. But  
Mordred lived on. Well, not Mordred himself, but so great and so  
powerful was his instinct, that his thirst lived on after him. His  
thirst for life, his thirst to live.  
So great was it that the ailing, withered body of Mogdred had become  
cocooned in that energy, preserving it while waiting for a new vessel  
to thrive upon.  
It didn't have to wait long.  
For it found mineral substance with which to refortify its physical  
form, and, most important of all, a new soul so rich in fear, so  
succulent in primal emotions, that as soon as the new form arose from  
its cocoon, it immediately started to feed upon it, and to fill itself  
with life force.  
It found a flavour so mouth-watering, a soul as rich in greed as  
Mordred himself. There was an undoubted affinity that meant more than  
just ongoing life, for to find a soul so compatible with Mordred was an  
opportunity to resume consciousness and sapient identity. A new soul to  
become one with.  
  
* * *  
  
The metallic creature had the most inappropriate method of taking  
life, for it was taking the life of Malice with, of all things, a kiss.  
The creature, in what passed for a mind, recognised itself  
instinctively as a creature of passions, and it found the kiss of this  
sorceress most pleasurable. It also found her life force, so saturated  
as it was with the flavour of fear, a most succulent meal.  
So much so that it continued to drink every last lingering vestige of  
life force it could find in Malice's body, long after she had expired.  
It was to Mordred a hearty meal. To Malice it was a cold, gruesome  
death. To both of them, it was a watershed, for the soul of Malice,  
even as it was swallowed whole by the soul of Mordred, embraced the all-  
encompassing darkness it found there. Malice recognised the evil  
shrouding Mordred's soul, and found it familiar, even comforting.  
Somewhat perversely, the creature was exhausted by the energy it had  
ingested, not to mention confused by new instincts suddenly racing  
through it. Thoughts, it would have called them, if only it could  
remember them from before.  
As it cast aside the now frozen, colourless husk of Malice's body, it  
found itself in need of rest. It saw the throne and slumped itself upon  
it, lolling sluggishly over one of its arms, and swiftly descended into  
slumber. It was surprised, even alarmed, to find that these thoughts  
continued to race through its suddenly expanding mind. Dreams. Dreams  
of power. Dreams of greed and of glory, dreams of unspeakable evils,  
all committed with relish. Dreams of wretched defeat, dreams of pain,  
and worst of all, dreams of dark, choking fear.  
Fear.  
As it slept on, the creature's eyes rolled frantically below their  
lids, it began to sweat with the tangible fears rumbling through its  
mind. It remembered the anger of betrayal, the fury of confrontation,  
the pain of fire. The hate and fear that it all caused was... it had a  
name. What was it? mal-... mali-... malice. Yes. It was malice. No. No,  
it was Malice. Malice was awakening within the creature, even as it was  
trying to comprehend the creature that it was part of.  
It was Malice. The creature was Malice, and yet it was so very much  
more. It was a feeling. The emotion that Malice had felt when struck by  
a ball of fire from an enemy. She had felt the pain of the flames  
burning into the flesh above her brow, she had felt the anger at the  
enemy's treacherous attack, but most of all she had felt the...  
It was Mogdred. The creature was Mogdred, and yet it was so very much  
more. It was a feeling. The emotion that Mogdred had felt when  
shrouding an enemy in invisibility, only to find the magic thrown back  
at him. He had felt the humiliation of defeat, he had felt the  
exasperation of being felled by his own weapon, but most of all he had  
felt the...  
It was Mordred. The creature was Mordred, and yet it was so very much  
more. It was a feeling. The emotion that Mordred had felt when being  
struck down by his detested uncle. He had felt the anguish as Excalibur  
had cut through his flesh, he had felt the despair as he realised that  
he would never take his rightful place as King of the Britons, but most  
of all he had felt the...  
They had all felt what they had now united to become. In life it had  
been the defining quality, the dominant characteristic in all of them.  
None of them had ever dared to admit it, even to themselves, but it was  
their most constant companion, the devil cursing their every waking  
hour, and many a sleeping hour too. The demon perched on their  
shoulders, its voice always whispering in their ears, filling them with  
anxieties and paranoia, motivating them against those around them, and  
dominating their hearts and minds with greedy insecurities.  
They had all felt the icy finger of...  
They had all felt the shivering embrace of...  
They had all become...  
"FEAR!!!!!"  
The creature opened its eyes, which glowed redder than red with  
incalculable evil. It was conscious. It was aware of being. And it was  
aware of what it was.  
"I... am. And... I... am... FEAR!!!!"  
The creature hauled itself to its feet. And even as it did so it felt  
stronger. It felt its consciousness expanding as the separate, diverse  
minds at the core of its being slowly melded into one, coherent whole.  
It looked down at itself. It looked at the metal of its body, fused  
with the bones of its old skeleton. It was strengthening, solidifying  
before the creature's calm, resolute eyes, and layers of this fusion  
spreading across the gaps between bones. What need of flesh when  
wearing the skin of such mighty armour? It felt its own head, the layer  
of protective iron surrounding its skull.  
The metamorphosis would soon be complete. It had emerged from its  
chrysalis, and its new rebirth was almost done.  
It stretched its arms upwards and let out a roar of triumph.  
"I... AM... FEAAAARRRR!!!!!!!!"  
  
* * *  
  
Treguard was still not sure how to feel, be it morose, optimistic or  
just numb. He should have been feeling morose for the loss of his old  
friend and comrade Merlin. On the other hand he should also have been  
feeling optimistic that Mogdred had been dismissed to the Chaos lands.  
Unfortunately these two impulses offset each other pretty well  
exactly, leaving Treguard feeling numb, and he wasn't inclined to  
accept that, it didn't seem healthy.  
Still, there was no time for dwelling on self-pity. The Mogdred-  
Merlin business was now settled, seemingly forever, but Treguard still  
had other matters to attend to, chiefly warnings he had received from  
Mildread.  
"'The key to defeat lies in victory'," he reminded himself quietly.  
His words hadn't been meant for anyone else, but nonetheless, Motley  
looked up from the corner of the antechamber, where he was absently  
practicing juggling with a bundle of multi-coloured skittles, and  
blinked without comprehension. "Eh?"  
"It doesn't matter," sighed Treguard. "I doubt there's anything you  
can do anyway."  
"Try me," suggested Motley.  
Treguard looked at him doubtfully for a moment then shrugged. "You  
remember Mildread?"  
"Mildread? Er, short woman. Always leaning like she's got an anvil on  
a chain round her neck? Face like a rubber mask that's been left too  
close to a fire?"  
"Yes."  
"What about her?"  
Treguard explained to him about the unwanted discussion with  
Mildread. Motley didn't know why, but as he listened he was suddenly  
reminded of an unwanted encounter of his own, one that he was still  
putting down to alcohol-induced fantasies.  
"The tree," he murmured.  
Treguard suddenly stopped recounting the details of Mildread's  
premonition and looked at the jester sharply. "What did you say?"  
Motley rubbed his jaw. "Look," he said, "a great change is coming, in  
which the key to defeat lies in victory? That's the gist of what she  
was telling you?"  
"More or less."  
Motley's face fell very flat. "Look, boss," he coughed, "I don't mean  
any disrespect and what-'ave-you..."  
"Don't start that up again," Treguard warned him.  
"Sorry," nodded Motley, "it's just, well, I think you're missing  
something obvious."  
Treguard looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Have I?"  
"Well, yeah."  
"Well don't keep me in suspense, Motley," insisted Treguard  
impatiently. "If you've got something to say, say it."  
"A great change, guv'nor?" said Motley. "I mean, ain't that already  
happened?" Treguard blinked, but other than that offered no response,  
so Motley decided to elaborate a little further. "Merlin I mean. He's  
gone. And Mogdred's been dismissed to the Chaos lands. That sounds like  
a pretty big change to me."  
Treguard's expression changed to complete astonishment. He hadn't  
seen it. He really hadn't seen it. He had been so busy seeing Hordriss'  
whole plan to remove Mogdred as an ill-timed parallel issue to  
Mildread's prophecy that he hadn't noticed just how much of a parallel  
it really was, in terms of the similarities. Motley was right. It was a  
huge change, and it was also a victory, albeit a hollow one.  
Treguard suddenly felt an excruciating knot of anxiety at the pit of  
his stomach. For if he were to take this theory a stage further and see  
this as the victory in which Mildread had prophesied there would be the  
key to defeat, then the process, whatever it was, may already have been  
set in motion.  
For his part, Motley had already thought of all this. But on top of  
that, there was still that other thing bothering him. What was it the  
tree seemed to say to him?  
"We've died once already this day."  
Died once already this day? And that was the day that Merlin had  
died? A little bit much for a coincidence perhaps? Far too much in  
fact. Motley immediately turned and headed for the door.  
"Where are you going?" demanded Treguard.  
"I won't be long," Motley called back over his shoulder.  
Treguard wasn't too worried about that, in fact, he just wanted to  
know what Motley was planning to do. Although even if he'd had the  
chance to ask, the only answer he'd have got would have been something  
along the lines of, "Actually you don't want to know."  
  
* * *  
  
The creature was no longer at odds with its own existence. It knew  
what it was, even relished it. But it was now uncertain as to its  
purpose, and thus who it was.  
The fear it tasted was cold and paralysing, and yet its flavour was  
invigorating. It was the taste of... control. Control, yes. There was a  
thought still echoing around the walls of its soul. What was it? Why  
did it sound so recent? So familiar?  
There was one word in it that really stood out, because it sounded so  
deliciously appealing. RULE. Yes. Rule. That sounded most enticing. But  
how was it supposed to do that? Purpose is nothing without strategy.  
The words gained greater clarity the more the creature thought. It  
could remember more of it. "Rule through pain..." No, no that wasn't  
it. No it was, "Rule through fear..." No, not quite. Nearer but not  
quite.  
Then, it clicked. Yes! That was it.  
"Rule not through the pain of reprisals but through the fear of  
reprisals."  
The creature still did not know how it knew this wisdom, or even why  
it sounded so recent, but now it sensed its purpose.  
RULE. RULE THROUGH FEAR. The thought rushed through every fibre of  
its being, the impulse was in every way ingrained into it, an instinct  
that it recognised from its own previous lives. It was in them, it was  
part of them, part of what made them what they were. It was still part  
of what made them one being. They were, all of them, creatures who  
ruled through fear.  
The creature pulled itself to its feet and walked across the chamber  
to a narrow mirror on the furthest wall. It looked at itself.  
It was almost complete. It was beautiful, a perfect fusion of metal  
and sinew. Bones laced with white iron, joined by stretches of dark  
iron. Eyes full of red hatred, a face of parchment white flesh. All  
shrouded in studded raven leathers.  
The creature was regal and it was frightening. It was born to RULE  
THROUGH FEAR. It was Fear. It was the Lord of Terror. Yes. A Lord who  
ruled through Fear. It smiled at its own reflection with self-  
admiration, and stretched its arms upward again.  
"I... AM... LORD... FEAAARRR!!!!!!!!"  
  
* * *  
  
Motley had the problem that he didn't actually know for sure which  
tree he was looking for. This was a symptom of another, equally knotty  
problem, namely that of the irritating habit forests always had of  
being full of trees.  
He had retraced his way along the paths of the Dunwood, trying to  
remember where he had had that ghoulish encounter with the talking tree  
the previous night, hoping that he could recognise it from his memory,  
dulled though it was by intoxication.  
It was hopeless. He'd last seen it in the dead of night when the wind  
was high and the rain was falling, so in fact it was an exaggeration to  
suggest that he'd seen it at all. Now the sun was out, shining weakly  
through the hazy sky, and the whole forest thus could hardly have  
looked more different if an earthquake struck.  
He searched for some time, trudging unsteadily over the soft ground,  
until his eyes could no longer focus properly, the trees seeming to  
blend into each other, and he could no longer tell one for another.  
Motley scowled with annoyance and slumped onto the ground, trying to  
catch his breath. He hated the feeling of helplessness, always had  
done, and the most frustrating kind was always the one when he knew he  
had the ability, but just couldn't remember what to do or how to do it.  
He sat back against the trunk of the tree behind him, and sulked  
glumly.  
"Why can you never find someone when you need them?" he growled. "I  
mean it's only a tree I'm lookin' for, it shouldn't be able to run  
off."  
"Oh I'm sorry," said a voice behind him. "If you'd just taken the  
trouble to tell me you were looking for me I would have said  
something."  
With impressive dexterity Motley suddenly jumped to his feet, spun on  
his heel and found himself staring into two large careworn eyes set in  
the bark of the tree, like ripples from stones cast into a limpid pond.  
The voice that spoke to him from the narrow slit of a mouth near the  
base of the trunk sounded kind yet painfully formal, rather like a  
guilty grandfather who, every year without exception, forgets to send a  
birthday card.  
"Sorry," murmured the tree, a little embarrassed as he realised that  
he had scared Motley half out of his wits. A sorry state of affairs,  
cynics might argue, seeing how few wits Motley had to be in in the  
first place.  
With what might have seemed to an outside observer like a heroic  
effort, Motley caught his breath and calmed himself down. He then  
looked up at the tree again. Nice to know he hadn't been imagining  
things the previous night after all. He suddenly smiled to himself  
briefly at that, as he considered the possibility that that time he had  
been lying drunk in the dungeon pantry and he could have sworn that  
Mellisandre had suddenly walked in, kneeled down next to him and  
started to undo his... well, without going into unnecessary details,  
maybe that hadn't just been his imagination either.  
Still, now wasn't the time to dwell on such optimistic possibilities,  
Motley had bigger priorities. Not that he was entirely sure what they  
were. He just felt sure, deep down, that he was in the right place to  
learn what he needed to learn.  
As if in answer to his thoughts the tree asked, "So, how may I help  
you, young Motley?"  
  
"You know who I am?"  
"Well obviously," answered the tree, just a little testily. "Is that  
all you wanted to ask me?"  
"Er no," said Motley quickly. "I was just a bit surprised that you  
knew my name."  
"Oh. So what did you want to know?"  
"Well firstly," began Motley folding his arms, surprised at how  
defensive he was suddenly feeling, "seein' as how you know my name, why  
not tell me yours?"  
  
"That would be fair," agreed the tree. "My name is Nilgom."  
"Nilgom?" scoffed Motley. "What kind of name is that?"  
"It's my name," answered the tree. "Why? What kind of name is  
Motley?"  
Ah, so it was to be a verbal sparring contest was it? Well  
unfortunately for Nilgom, this was one tree that had chosen quite the  
wrong opponent. For this was the classic situation where a sharp tongue  
was of incalculable value, the kind where Motley could give a swift,  
smart reply full of his own unique brand of savage, clever irony that,  
with its sheer breathtaking cheek alone, could dumbfound and infuriate  
even the most brilliant verbal assailant.  
Unfortunately he couldn't actually think of one, and the pause had  
soon lasted too long for any response to have the desired effect. So he  
settled for a shrug and the rather lame, "Fair point."  
"Yes," sniffed the tree, quietly triumphant, "my name is Nilgom. So,  
for the third time of asking, what do you want to ask me?"  
"It was something you said to me last night," began Motley.  
"Oh yes," the tree nodded. The problem with nodding of course was  
that, being a tree, Nilgom didn't actually have a head. Therefore,  
nodding involved the entire tree violently shaking back and forth on  
its roots, releasing a torrent of water from the previous night's  
downpour that had settled in the leaves and branches. Motley was  
quickly soaked, but Nilgom appeared not to notice, or more likely not  
to care. And who could blame him? Nilgom could never go inside whenever  
the rain started, he had to sit out there in the freezing cold all year  
round and put up with it, so why should he sympathise when some scruffy  
jester got his clothes wet? "Yes," the tree continued cheerfully, "the  
only thing I said in fact. I might have said more, but you were so  
drunk I was afraid your breath might set my foliage on fire, so I  
thought I should leave the discussion there."  
Motley suddenly noticed that he was not enjoying this conversation  
very much. Not only could he not think of any witty rejoinders to the  
ultra-composed put-downs that Nilgom was throwing his way by the  
bucketful, he was also soaked to the bone. He was beginning to wish  
he'd not set out.  
"I believe," continued Nilgom, "that my words were 'We've died once  
already this day.' Yes?" he added as though he thought Motley would  
remember better than he did.  
Motley nodded. "Yes."  
"And you want to know what I meant by that?"  
"Yes."  
"May I ask you one thing before I tell you?"  
Motley rolled his eyes. He was really starting to dislike this tree.  
"Another thing? Go on."  
"I'm wondering why you want to know," explained Nilgom. "It wouldn't  
have anything to do with Merlin would it?"  
Motley looked into the wooded eyes of the tree, suddenly feeling the  
familiar spark of progress. Maybe he could grow to like the tree after  
all. "Yes," he said evenly.  
"I thought so."  
"And?"  
Nilgom's voice suddenly turned quieter, darker. "There is much that  
you must know, Motley. You and your Dungeon Master."  
"Well tell me," insisted Motley.  
"Do you really not recognise me, Motley?" the tree suddenly asked.  
Motley shook his head, not so much an answer as a dizzy response to  
the sudden changes of direction the conversation kept making.  
Nonetheless Nilgom seemed to take it as an answer, and it was true  
enough.  
"I cannot die if Mogdred does not die with me," explained the tree,  
increasingly bleakly.  
Motley's eyes widened a little. "Merlin?"  
  
* * *  
  
Fatilla the Hun never knew what eliminated him, for he was already  
dead as soon as he saw it. All he had done was lumber up to the throne  
room in response to a summons from his leader, when he was hit in the  
face by a tumultuous fireball. The first - only - thing he thought,  
was that he had been attacked by some kind of ghostly skeleton.  
He was dead before he hit the floor.  
The creature looked down at his half-metal fingers with a nod of  
satisfaction, and blew away the small puff of smoke rising from them.  
"Bye bye, Fatty," it cooed cheerfully. No not it. He. The generation  
of his hybrid personality was almost complete. He liked the strange  
movements of magic that these metallic components made possible.  
"Y'know, I think there's a lot to be said for this technology-thing."  
Fear strode... no not just Fear, he was a Lord of Fear.  
Lord Fear strode across the chamber and sat himself in the throne. He  
found that it fit him very well indeed. It was made for him.  
"And I also think I'm going to enjoy this body," gloated Fear, a  
sickly grin hideously splitting his face from ear to ear, "very, very  
much."  
  
* * *  
  
"Merlin?" Motley swallowed slightly, although by now his throat was  
feeling so dry that it only made his throat hurt. "Is that you?"  
"Yes," said the tree. "I am Nilgom. Or Moglin backwards. As in  
Mogdred and Merlin, the two sides fused into one once more. We should  
be gone to the Chaos lands, Motley. But we cannot." The tree gave  
Motley a piercing look. "For part of Mogdred lives on, Motley. A part  
the rest of us cannot touch, and yet a part that holds us in this world  
as long as it lives. It has found something else to cling to, to hold  
it in this world."  
Motley all of a sudden found breathing to be a difficult trick again.  
"Oh boy, this is serious," was the only, somewhat unnecessary, thing he  
could find to say.  
"We made a mistake, Motley," continued Nilgom. "Hordriss and I, we  
made a mistake when we decided to cast the dispersal spell. We forgot  
that Mogdred is not just my dark side. He is also the spirit of King  
Arthur's nephew, Mordred. Inevitably that part of Mogdred has survived  
when I died, as Mordred was never truly part of me. But he is still  
linked to me, so I cannot retreat to the netherworlds as long as he  
remains here."  
Motley closed his eyes slowly as he realised the horrifying enormity  
of what might have happened. Merlin had made the ultimate sacrifice,  
and it might well have been for nothing.  
"It is only in this place that I could find a way of reawakening in  
the physical world, Motley," continued Nilgom. "As a pagan, a woshipper  
of the spirits of river and forest, a forest is the only place where I  
could re-emerge and warn you. You have to let Treguard know, Motley.  
Let him know that the threat of Mogdred is not yet gone. I-..."  
Nilgom's voice suddenly sounded pained. "I-I don't know when I may next  
appear. Tell Treguard... tell Treguard... tell Treguard... tell  
Treguard..."  
And then, the face melted back into the bark of the tree, and could  
be seen no more. Motley looked down at the floor miserably. "'Key to  
defeat in victory'," he muttered weakly, shaking his head. That was  
what Mildread's premonition had meant. They had successfully destroyed  
Mogdred's physical form, but he'd survived in some way, and now they no  
longer had Merlin to help them fight against him.  
Motley turned and, somehow managing to find the energy, started to  
run back to Dunshelm.  
  
* * *  
  
The ways of magic were alluring, and yet so impossible to know that  
it was hard not to find them repellently frightening as well. To King  
John, this ambivalence was all too familiar. He was more terrified of  
Mogdred than he was of any of the other barons and knights in his  
kingdom. The dark powers at the necromancer's command he found awesome,  
and the evil that drove them he found shocking.  
And yet somehow John still felt a bizarre fascination with it all. He  
couldn't be sure why he was unable to do the sensible thing and disown  
Mogdred, turn every power he could against him and extinguish the  
danger he clearly posed.  
Maybe it was the paranoia he felt about everyone else that was  
driving him to risk taking such a malevolent threat as an ally. Surely  
not. To fight something he feared by using powers that he feared even  
more would have been too absurd even for King John.  
Maybe it was that very hazardous quality common to so many  
Plantagenet Kings - their love of playing with fire, of taking  
needless gambles, the need to be in danger, as though that provided the  
only excitement capable of pleasing them. Plausible with most in John's  
family, not least his ferocious brothers, but unlikely with John  
himself, who had always been neurotic about his own safety.  
Maybe it was...  
John shook his head. He didn't know what it was.  
Folly knew, but he was reluctant to tell him for fear of being on the  
receiving end of the King's notoriously volatile temper. If anyone were  
to suggest that a King's judgement was impaired, it was to invite an  
axe to the neck, and Folly was far too canny to make such an error.  
Nonetheless, he still knew it to be true. The King's judgement was  
impaired, although on this all too rare occasion it was not in any way  
the King's own fault. Well, not directly.  
What Folly knew was that the King's own perspective had been very  
subtly, very minutely, almost subliminally, altered by sorcery.  
That was why the King had chosen to authorise Mogdred's outrageous  
claim to the Governorship of the North of England. A simple,  
imperceptible spell of hypnotic suggestion while they had been  
discussing the idea had led to the King finding Mogdred's arguments  
more persuasive than perhaps he would have done otherwise.  
Folly was sat on a cushion in one corner of the King's throne room.  
He was always made to sit there, forever the dunce in the corner,  
eternally the fool to be mocked.  
On this occasion he had a wooden slab resting on his lap, and upon  
that a parchment on which he was hurriedly writing something with a  
large quill. He was trying not to give an air of the urgency or nerves  
that he was certainly feeling. He was in a hurry because he didn't want  
the King to start wondering what he was writing.  
It was a letter intended for the Castle of Dunshelm, and its contents  
were, at best, of dubious legality. At worst they were treasonous, for  
they constituted top-secret information being sent to a King's enemy.  
Folly hurriedly scrawled, dabbed the quill in the tiny inkpot by his  
foot, and then scrawled some more. He cursed under his breath when he  
made a mistake, blotted it out messily and resumed.  
"Folly?"  
Folly froze for just an instant then looked up innocently at the  
King. Was this the moment he had been dreading? "Yes, my Liege?"  
"What is that you are writing?" asked the King.  
Folly beamed broadly, hoping the white make-up on his face was hiding  
the tiny downward cast at the corners of his mouth. "Merely a poem, my  
Liege," he explained, the first thing that came into his mind. Damn, he  
thought, that was a stupid thing to say. Now the King was bound to ask  
him to...  
"A poem?" grunted the King. "Oh." The King slumped back into thought.  
Folly was surprised, relieved, and offended in equal measure. He was  
surprised that he hadn't been asked to read the poem out, as the King  
was normally so fond of hearing any creative work to take his mind off  
stressful matters of state. Folly was also relieved, because he hadn't  
written a poem at all of course, and not only was he unsure that he  
could just make one up on the spot, he also couldn't recite an old one  
for fear that the King or one of his courtiers would recognise it. And  
Folly was offended professionally that the King valued his poetic  
skills so little that he was taking no apparent interest at all.  
Still, this was no time for a bruised ego. Folly swiftly finished the  
letter, then got to his feet, and bowed deferentially to his King,  
while carefully folding up the parchment so that no one could catch a  
glimpse of it. "May I have leave to go to the study to fetch fresh  
parchment, sire?" he asked politely. "This needs redrafting."  
The King nodded absently. "Hurry back. Then you can tell us your  
poem."  
Folly bowed gratefully and headed out of the throne room, head held  
high. Walking like that looked a little ridiculous with his outfit,  
especially the pointy shoes, but then that was the whole point. The  
image was also a help for Folly. The mocking laughs his posturing walk  
drew from some of the assembled courtiers confirmed that they saw him  
as not even the slightest threat.  
If only they knew, thought Folly, looking down at the parchment in  
his hand with a slight smile. Once he was on the other side of the door  
he let his face fall a little. He was going to have to come up with a  
poem pretty quickly after all, but he could do that while he was  
dealing with bigger matters.  
Folly quickly raced across the hall toward the entrance. It was  
guarded by two soldiers, as was typical practice in the palace. Rather  
less typically, one of them, due to a blemish on the face, looked  
eerily familiar.  
"Halt, Fool," snapped the blemished one, drawing a large broadsword  
and holding it across Folly's path. "State your business or you will  
not pass, so swears Gumboil the Stupendous!"  
"Gumboil?" gasped Folly. "When did you start working here?"  
Gumboil looked at Folly closely, scrunching eyes and nose up narrowly  
until he looked like he'd been frozen solid in the middle of a violent  
sneezing fit. Suddenly recognition, and dislike, filled his eyes. "Oh,  
so it's you is it?"  
"Well I might as well be," Folly answered smartly, "because if I  
wasn't, I'd only be somebody else. And that's just not me."  
Confusion in conversation with Folly was an all too familiar  
experience for Gumboil. That was the reason for the dislike. He frowned  
stupidly, then shook his head, deciding that the best way to deal with  
the confusion was just to ignore it. "I told you to state your  
business, jester. What do you want?"  
To Folly, this was unfortunately a very good question, in that it was  
exactly the one that he didn't want to answer. So he didn't. Instead he  
decided to talk round the answer. "Want is a relative term," he  
explained mystically. "What I want and what I need are both immutably  
intertwined, and yet irredeemably different."  
Gumboil looked irritated. That was good as far as Folly was  
concerned.  
"What I want is a question of desire," continued Folly. "Desire is an  
aspect above my position as a lowly jester. What I need on the other  
hand is a matter of compulsion."  
"All right," sighed Gumboil, "what are you compelled to do then?"  
"Ah, now you are heading off on tangents," noted Folly, quite  
unfairly as it was undeniable that Folly himself had raised the subject  
in the first place. "What is compulsion, if not an expression of the  
will of another? Therefore your question about compulsion is still a  
question about want, and as I've already explained, entirely  
inappropriate."  
Feeling a sudden cloying need to lean against something, Gumboil  
lowered his sword, and propped himself up against its hilt. "Are you  
takin' the mickey?" he demanded.  
"No," lied Folly. "I'm simply offering you the most helpful advice I  
can on how you can do your job more effectively."  
"I don't want you to tell me my job," protested Gumboil, horrified by  
his own complete inability to take control of the conversation. "I just  
want you to answer my question!"  
"There you go again," snapped Folly, "there's that 'want' word  
again." He wagged a disapproving finger. "You're only a guard. You  
don't make the decisions round here. You're not in charge of anyone.  
What you want is a question of desire, and that is above your  
position..."  
"Don't start that up again!" growled Gumboil. "Answer the question."  
"I did," said Folly preposterously.  
"No you didn't!"  
"Oh but I did," insisted Folly. "I just didn't answer yours. I'll  
answer your question, when you ask me the right one."  
"Well, what is the right question?" Gumboil heard himself asking, and  
hating himself for letting himself get drawn further into the  
conversation.  
"Well, it's not that one either," answered Folly, sticking his tongue  
out.  
"I..." Gumboil scratched his head helplessly, and then burst into  
tears. "Pass," he squeaked miserably and stepped aside.  
Folly laughed to himself in delight and scampered past Gumboil and  
the other guard. The portcullis was raised up allowing him out into the  
main courtyard. He turned toward the stables and keeping his head down  
as best he could, which wasn't very, he ducked inside. Within, he found  
a stable lad lying in the hay, snoring. Not exactly the sleep of the  
just, unless you meant he was just sleeping, but he was at least  
finding some measure of contentment in it. The boy was in his mid-  
teens, with fair hair that was distorted unpleasantly by his obvious  
failure to wash it in weeks.  
"Wake up, Eadric," whispered Folly, giving the boy a nudge with his  
shoe. No response. Folly shrugged and then called out a little louder,  
"Viking attack, Viking attack! Erik the Red's invading!"  
The boy woke up quickly and ran for the door. Folly calmly put a hand  
out and took a grip with a single finger on the boy's collar. The boy's  
legs carried themselves forward even as the momentum of his upper torso  
halted. He was toppled backwards by it and came crashing down onto his  
back.  
Eadric sat up as he realised that there was no Danish invasion in  
progress, and he gave Folly a pouting look. "Did you have to?"  
"Yes," Folly informed him. If it had been a rhetorical question,  
Folly hadn't noticed. He quickly showed Eadric the parchment. "I need  
you to head North again for me. Treguard's waiting on a new update on  
the King's activities, and he doesn't like waiting."  
Eadric took the parchment with a frown and got to his feet.  
"I'll be on my way in an hour," Eadric assured him with much honesty  
but little enthusiasm.  
Folly shook his head, inadvertently causing one of the bells on his  
hood to jangle slightly. "Go and get ready now, and be on your way in  
ten minutes." Eadric might have argued, but Folly gave him a warning  
look of rare seriousness. "I mean it, Eadric. Magna Carta is getting  
close now. We can't let things proceed without Treguard's involvement,  
or the barons will take over and make sure it works only for them."  
Eadric swallowed. In truth he only half-understood what this strange  
Charter of Liberties thing that Folly kept on referring to was about.  
But he did understand that it was very important, that it was an  
important opportunity for his country, for his people, so when Folly  
said that things were urgent, Eadric treated them as urgent. "Ten  
minutes," he nodded.  
"Oh and be careful," added Folly. "I haven't been able to arrange a  
cover story with the guards for your journey, so be convincing."  
  
* * *  
  
To look at Knightmare Castle was never a deed likely to inspire joy  
or merriment. By contrast, it was always a dark place more given over  
to inspiring unease and foreboding, or sheer solemnity.  
Today, it was just draining to see. For instance as Motley looked  
into the hearth and saw the flames leaping and dancing before his eyes,  
he almost saw a listlessness to them, as though the fire were simply  
going through the motions of burning, without finding any eagerness for  
the task.  
That was entirely a trick of the mind of course, an illusion born of  
Motley's state of mind. But that was brought on by something that was  
genuinely sad to see, and that of course was Treguard's expression. The  
Dungeon Master was sat in front of the hearth, ostensibly warming his  
hands in front of its flickering fire, but in truth just trying to  
avoid everybody's eyes.  
Motley had announced in faltering tones the terrible news to  
Treguard, Pickle and Mellisandre, that Mogdred's spirit had somehow  
survived Merlin's annihilation, to which they had all gone quiet in  
shock. The silence was unbearable to Motley, who was feeling terrible  
about being the one who had to break it to them, but he dared not speak  
up.  
Treguard for his own part was lost in confusion. He had felt much  
pain at the terrible sacrifice that he and Hordriss had asked of  
Merlin. Now to hear that it had all been for nothing left him dizzy,  
and angry with himself. Unconsciously he gnawed on his own knuckle, as  
though trying to wear away the guilt by making his own finger pay the  
penance.  
Pickle chose to break the silence, much to Motley's quiet relief.  
"How do we proceed, Master?" he asked. "Without Merlin how can we fight  
Mogdred...?"  
"My friend has died for nothing, Pickle," Treguard interrupted him  
tonelessly. "It's a lot to come to terms with in its own right. I'm not  
sure I'm ready to concentrate on the strategic side of things just  
yet."  
Pickle noticed the very mild rebuke and nodded apologetically.  
"Still you're right," admitted Treguard. "We can only pray that  
Mordred doesn't manage to resurrect himself physically again."  
"We still have the spyglass," pointed out Mellisandre. "Perhaps we  
should have another look."  
Treguard continued to stare into the flames of the hearth, his eyes  
glazed. "Perhaps," he answered. And for now he would say no more than  
that.  
  
* * *  
  
Folly re-entered the throne room, and was immediately sure that he  
was in trouble. There were subtle signs of this, of the kind that his  
shrewd mind had always been quick to interpret well. For instance the  
fact that one of the guards had immediately grabbed hold of the back of  
his neck and pinned him to the wall, while one of the other guards held  
a sword blade across the jester's throat. There were also the small  
details of the King pacing back and forth in front of the throne, a  
typical expression of scarlet-faced outrage on his face, and saying in  
a dangerous tone of false calmness, "You're in trouble, Folly."  
Folly had always prided himself on his ability to read between the  
lines like this, but he wasn't sure that it had kicked in in time on  
this occasion. "In trouble, sire?" he asked, trying to sound as  
innocent and confused as he could.  
"Yes," confirmed the King nastily.  
"May I ask why?"  
"Because you've been up to something. I don't know what it is, but I  
do know that you've been hiding it from me."  
Uh oh, thought Folly, had the King found him out? "My liege?" he  
prompted, still feigning ignorance.  
"Where did you go just now?"  
"To the study, sire, just as I..."  
"You went to the study via the stables?" said the King. "To fetch  
fresh parchment that, mysteriously, you do not to have?"  
So, someone had snitched on him. Folly had to hope that Eadric could  
get away in time. "I was merely getting some fresh air, sire," Folly  
promised rather weakly.  
"Fresh air?" scoffed the King. "You go into a manure-encrusted stable  
to get some fresh air? What do you take me for? Some kind of Saxon?"  
The King didn't appear to notice that as much as it was an objection  
to being insulted, this rhetorical question was an insult - to Folly.  
Not that he would have cared if he had.  
"No my liege," Folly answered, "I would never equate you with a  
Saxon." The words were honest and deliberately ambiguous, made to sound  
like a compliment when they could just as easily have been a reproach.  
Which of course they were.  
"Tell me what you were really doing," growled the King, "and tell me  
the truth."  
"I was..." Folly needed to think fast. "I was..." C'mon brain, think!  
"I was... oh it's embarrassing to tell you, sire."  
The King's expression softened a little from anger to just suspicion.  
"What do you mean? What's so embarrassing?"  
"The horses, sire," explained Folly with a dim grin, "it's the  
horses."  
There were a few bewildered and nervous looks among the courtiers  
around the throne room. The King in particular looked perplexed. "What  
about them?" he demanded.  
"It's just..." Folly made a big show of looking all starry eyed and  
childish, "...oh you know how it is. I've never learned to ride a horse  
properly, sire," he continued, lying, "and I've always found them to be  
such mysterious, magnificent beasts. So fascinating. The whole thing  
about the poem, sire, it was all a joke. I was just..." He shrugged an  
embarrassed shrug. "I just wanted to go and see the horses and... you  
know... stroke them." He gave a nervous chuckle as he the saw the  
increasingly leery looks he was getting. "Their manes, they're so...  
silky aren't they?" He knew he was sounding not just vulnerable but  
slightly perverse, but he knew that it was the safest path - if he  
could draw out people's disgust it might make them forget their more  
serious suspicions. "I often sneak out to visit the horses, sire," he  
continued. "I just make up excuses because I feel a bit..."  
"Yes all right," the King interjected hurriedly. He gestured to the  
guards to release Folly, which they promptly did. Folly straightened  
out his jerkin, and rubbed his throat tenderly, while the King gave him  
a contemptuous look. "You've got good reason to be embarrassed, Fool,"  
he snarled. "What a thing to get obsessed with. Horses?" The King spat  
on the floor. "I've half a mind to have you beheaded for such  
perversity!"  
"Perversity, sire?" cried Folly, making a very convincing affectation  
of offence, while secretly feeling glad that he had clearly taken  
everyone in. "Surely you wouldn't imply that I've been..." He cleared  
his throat, "...you know?"  
"No, I don't know, Folly," huffed the King. "I imagine the only one  
who can say for sure is you." He turned and resumed sitting on the  
throne. "And I don't think I want to know."  
"As you wish, my King," answered Folly, bowing low. He let out a  
quiet sigh of relief. He'd managed to allay all suspicions, and Eadric  
obviously hadn't been found.  
  
* * *  
  
The stable door swung quietly open and a black horse carrying a burly  
boy on its back came trotting out into the courtyard. The boy had a  
knapsack across his shoulder, the horse carrying several skins filled  
with drinking water on its saddle.  
The horse reached the drawbridge, which was already lowered, but  
there were several soldiers guarding it. One of them walked over and  
stood in the horse's path, waving to the boy to stop. It seemed the  
guard recognised him.  
"Hullo Eadric," the guard greeted him, "where are you off to?"  
Eadric swallowed. This was where the job was going to be trouble.  
Usually, when Eadric was ferrying messages to Dunshelm, Folly was able  
to come up with a good cover story to convince the guards to let him  
pass without hindrance. Not today though. Worse still, unlike Folly,  
Eadric was no master performer, so he was going to have a lot more  
trouble bare facing his way past the soldiers. "I'm..." Best not to try  
and invoke the name of the King, someone would be sure to check on it.  
"I'm just heading into the forest to do some hunting," he answered  
nervously.  
The guard looked surprised. "You got permission for that?"  
Eadric's face immediately coloured. "Permission?"  
"Hunting without Royal permission's poaching," explained the guard.  
"Especially when you're using the King's horse to do it. You should  
know that by now."  
Eadric glanced over his shoulder at the relatively empty courtyard,  
then past the guard to the small scattering of soldiers on and around  
the drawbridge, and finally up to the battlements on the wall ahead of  
him, where a few more guards were on lookout duty. Safe enough, he  
decided.  
Eadric suddenly squeezed his heels into the his horse's ribs and gave  
a loud shout of, "Gee-YAH!"  
The horse gave a loud whinny, kicked up its front feet a little,  
then, to the astonishment of all the guards present, broke into a  
furious gallop. The guard who had accosted Eadric was quickly brushed  
aside. The rest of the soldiers were caught so completely by surprise  
by the sudden burst that they failed to react for a crucial few  
seconds, during which they instead just stood and gaped while the horse  
knocked aside several more soldiers and zipped across the drawbridge.  
By the time the soldiers got their heads together and tried to  
intercept, the horse was already well out of reach and getting further  
ahead all the time.  
Eadric gulped as the horse speedily carried him along the road away  
from the palace. The sheer enormity of what he had just done had  
suddenly hit him. He had broken his way through a Royal guard post.  
That made him the King's enemy.  
  
* * *  
  
As Mellisandre had suggested, they had tried to spy on Mogdred's old  
home through the spyglass, but they now saw nothing at all, not even  
Malice. It was as though the entire realm of Mogdred had disappeared.  
This was a little worrying for Treguard, as he would have rather liked  
to keep an eye on Malice and her surviving cohorts, but it probably  
didn't mean any harm. As they had charged the spyglass to give them a  
view of its creator and nothing had appeared, that surely meant that  
Mogdred had not resurfaced. The fact that it couldn't find Malice  
either was more of a mystery but probably nothing to panic about. For  
all her threat, Malice was noticeably less powerful than her old  
Master.  
Some days had now passed since Merlin's demise. Treguard probably  
should have been able to be more precise than that, but he had lost  
count of the days rather easily. It was not that he had stopped caring,  
far from it, he was feeling so racked by the guilt of it that he was  
trying very hard not to think about it.  
It was therefore with some relief this bleak evening that he heard  
from Pickle that a messenger had arrived. Good, he needed something  
positive to concentrate on, some developments to react to.  
"Well?" Treguard snapped. "Show him in you lazy sprite!"  
"Yes Master," nodded Pickle obediently. He stepped out of the  
antechamber for a few seconds, then stepped back in followed by a boy  
who looked like he had spent the last four days riding all the way from  
West Minster on the back of a horse.  
"Sorry if I look a bit of a mess, m'Lord," apologised the boy  
diplomatically. "I've spent the last four days riding all the way from  
West Minster on the back of a horse."  
"Think nothing of it," Treguard shrugged. "Pickle, prepare food and  
water for our visitor. It's Eadric isn't it?"  
Pickle scampered off to get refreshments.  
"Yes, m'Lord," confirmed Eadric, flattered to be remembered by a  
member of the aristocracy. That was the great thing about Saxon  
aristocrats, they had so much more in common with the locals than the  
Normans ever did. "I bring a letter from Folly."  
Treguard rubbed his hands together. Yes that sounded much more  
positive. "Good," he said holding out a hand. "May I?"  
Eadric opened his knapsack, pulled out the heavily folded parchment  
and handed it over to Treguard, who quickly unfolded it and started to  
read its contents. Pickle walked back in carrying a tray with a wooden  
jug full of water and a large pie on it.  
"Help yourself," instructed Pickle as he placed the tray on the  
table. Eadric decided to abandon all rules of etiquette for a few  
minutes and leapt upon the food, devouring it like a ravenous wolf. It  
was the first substantial food he'd eaten since he'd set off.  
"Thanks," he added as an afterthought once he'd finished.  
"What does Folly have to say, Master?" asked Pickle.  
Treguard sat down, the expression of exhausted grief mercifully  
absent from his face for the first time in days. It was substituted  
with a look of deep thoughtfulness.  
"The time of Magna Carta is almost upon us," he answered slowly. "The  
King may sign the Charter in as little as a few weeks. That means we  
have to move fairly quickly if we're to influence what will be included  
in it."  
"And anything further?"  
"Just a few details about the King's peace negotiations with France."  
Treguard rubbed his jaw. "Might be useful. We need to tell Folly about  
everything that's happened here. Eadric?"  
Eadric looked a little daunted. "Yes, sir?"  
"First thing in the morning I need you to head back to the palace,"  
said Treguard.  
Eadric's reply was not as eager as Treguard might have liked. "I was  
afraid you'd say that."  
"What's wrong?"  
Eadric explained how he had had to break his way out of the palace  
and desperately try to keep his head down all the way North. Treguard  
frowned as he listened.  
"I see," nodded Treguard when Eadric had finished. "You took a great  
risk for only modest information I'm afraid." He shrugged. "Don't  
worry, I can get someone else to take the message. You can stay here  
until the heat's off."  
"Thank you, m'Lord."  
"Meanwhile," continued Treguard, "I'll have another message sent to  
the King himself."  
"Really, Master?" asked Pickle nervously. Some of the things he had  
heard of the King's past treacheries had made the elf very nervous  
about the whole idea of any dealings with him.  
"Yes," stated Treguard firmly. "Let's try being direct for once, and  
then let him make the next move. With Mogdred currently indisposed..."  
Nice euphemism, "...the King will be in a poor position to drive a  
bargain against us. We should be able to lay down one or two terms that  
he can't refuse."  
"Such as?" pried Pickle.  
"The Dungeon has spread far and wide across England," explained  
Treguard, "and it's still spreading. It's becoming difficult to  
adjudicate the Knightmare Challenge over so wide an area. As long as it  
remains illegal under the King's law we can't be sure of continuing it,  
but Mogdred or no Mogdred there's still a lot of opposition to deal  
with. Continue we must."  
"You want to force the King to legalise it?"  
"Yes," confirmed Treguard. "Perhaps even re-establish the  
Northguard."  
Pickle shook his head sceptically. "I doubt that he'd ever agree to  
that, Master. King John's paranoia is even larger than his ego. He'd  
see the rebirth of the Northguard as the birth of a new rebel army..."  
"Like I say," insisted Treguard forcefully, "he's in a weak position  
to try being awkward."  
"Even so."  
"All we have to do in the meantime," continued Treguard, "is make  
sure that if Mogdred does resurface we find out very quickly."  
"No problem there, Master," Pickle reassured him confidently. "If  
Mogdred dares to show his face in the physical world again, we'll know  
about it as soon as he does."  
  
* * *  
  
Four days later, it was snowing in Winteria. This phenomenon was of  
course almost exactly as surprising as the phenomenon of rain falling  
in Lancashire, or the phenomenon of drunkenness breaking out anywhere  
in a thirty mile radius of a Viking wedding ceremony.  
To the inhabitants of Winteria however, the arrival of snow was still  
something that they would notice with considerable interest. Not the  
general fact that it was snow, but because they adored the opportunity  
to deduce which particular type of snow it was and compare its density,  
texture and weight with the type of snow that had fallen the previous  
day, and indeed any day of the previous six and a half years, which was  
the length of time since the last break they'd had in snowfalls.  
It was rumoured that some tribes living even further North, in the  
Arctic Circle itself, had over two hundred words for "snow", over  
seventy different words for "white", over three dozen words for "cold",  
and even several different words for "so flippin' cold it'll bite your  
bits off".  
Most people would have described such elaborations as excessive, but  
the Winterians would have described them as amateurish. They were so  
inundated with snow that they had over three hundred words just for  
"nippy". Anyone who tried to count the number of words they had for  
"snow" could start in nappies and die of old age before they got half  
way to the end.  
Not that they hated the snow. They adored it. They adored the cold,  
they adored the ice, they adored the firm crunch of powdery coldness  
beneath their feet, they even adored the feeling of drips of icy water  
accidentally going down the backs of their clothes. The thing they  
hated beyond all others was heat. Not blistering heat, not oppressive  
heat, just ordinary heat, the sort of heat of a spring morning. It was  
as though there was something genetically wrong with them.  
Therefore, it was impossible for anyone to explain quite how people  
of such literal cold-bloodedness were so incredibly hot tempered.  
Take Aesandre, Queen of Winteria. She had ruled with an iron fist,  
and even though she had undeniably been unjust at times, there was  
still not one among her subjects who would dare to dispute that she  
gave commands. She did not take them. If anyone did dare they  
invariably wound up dead.  
Until today. It was not one of her subjects, admittedly, but still,  
she was quite unprepared for this unfamiliar upstart in bony armour  
marching into the Grand Hall of her castle and telling her what to do.  
She was stood at the top of the steps of the dais on which stood her  
throne. The intruder stood at the foot of the steps, an arrogant sneer  
on his chalk white face.  
"Who are you?" demanded Aesandre chillingly (appropriately enough).  
"Don't remember me then?" cooed the bony one.  
"Who am I supposed to remember?"  
Lord Fear had travelled a long way for this meeting and unfortunately  
he'd brought his ego with him. And that was a large, unwieldy piece of  
baggage. "I'm offended, your Eminence," said Fear, his tone sounding  
playful, his eyes looking all too serious.  
"You still haven't answered me," Aesandre pointed out.  
"I'm your ruler, Aesandre."  
Aesandre was so amazed by the intruder's insolence that she quite  
forgot to lose her temper. "Nobody rules me..."  
"I'm honoured to be the first," smarmed Fear. "But don't worry, I'm  
not here to coerce you. Not today."  
"Good," smiled Aesandre condescendingly, "seeing a man of your  
extraordinary fashion sense disappointed would have upset me deeply."  
"Let me put it this way, Aesandre," continued Fear. "We know each  
other rather better than you realise. And although I'd prefer to see  
you grovelling at my feet, I'm prepared to destroy you with a single  
gesture."  
Aesandre finally tired of the intruder's posturing. "Enough! You  
insolent little worm. You dare march into my realm and threaten me? I  
could freeze you solid before you knew I'd moved..."  
"Freeze me solid?" scoffed Fear. "You're a weak comedian, Aesandre. I  
once tied you in a spell of restraint that held you to your precious  
throne for a hundred days." Aesandre's face sank into a look of terror.  
"It took only a thought to do that, and now I could do even more with  
even less effort. Want me to demonstrate?"  
Aesandre's face actually conspired to look even paler than ever. "M-  
Mogdred?" she stammered. "Is that you?"  
"Well," Fear considered, "how can I answer that in a way that you can  
understand? Oh yes I know."  
Fear raised a hand and pointed a finger at Aesandre. A large ball of  
flame then emerged and hit the floor right below the Ice Queen's feet.  
It would have hurt anyone, but to a Winterian it was the most horrible  
agony imaginable as the searing heat spread across her icy skin and the  
force hurled her from her feet. She gave a scream of pure anguish as  
she landed in a painful heap in front of the throne. Fear slowly walked  
up the steps and stood over her. Gasping for breath, Aesandre looked up  
and held her hand up for what precious little protection it afforded  
her from any follow up attack.  
"It's Lord Fear now by the way," continued the technomancer. "I do  
hope you like the new get-up."  
Aesandre nodded feebly - like she was going to dare insult him  
after all that.  
"Mogdred wasn't my first body," added Fear, "and I doubt that this  
will be my last."  
"Ah." There seemed nothing else to say.  
"Like I say," continued Fear, "I'm not looking to force issues here.  
I just wanted to do a little deal with you. If you'd be polite enough  
to stop and listen...?"  
"I'm listening," Aesandre promised in a voice that suddenly sounded  
more squeaky than forceful.  
"It'll be some months before Treguard's Dungeon finishes reforming,"  
explained Fear, politely helping - or rather dragging - Aesandre  
to her feet and then helping - or rather dumping - her into her  
throne. "I'd like your co-operation with a small matter."  
"Which is?" asked Aesandre hesitantly.  
"My previous incarnation had a clever plan, even if he does say so  
himself. Which I do." Fear looked slightly perplexed for a moment, as  
though he had managed to confuse himself with his own words, which he  
probably had. But he continued nonetheless. "Whenever the Dungeon was  
out of phase, he'd use its own power of mutation to spread it further  
and further across the land. As a result his own power, born of the  
Dungeon's own creator, would spread with it. The Dungeon now exists  
below the surface of most of the North of England."  
"I am aware of that," nodded Aesandre.  
"Oooh, bully for you," mocked Fear. "The thing is, I want to continue  
the plan, but the dungeoneers that Treguard sends are still proving to  
be a real nuisance, and King John still doesn't seem to be able to do  
anything to put a stop to it."  
"So?"  
"I want your help to expand the Third Level beyond the English  
border. Into Winteria." Fear smiled in self-admiration. "I suspect that  
the cold weather, and your presence, should prove to be insurmountable  
obstacles for any quest that Treguard dares to send so far from  
Dunshelm."  
Aesandre looked away for a moment. The bad consequences of such a  
move were not lost on her. Fear's power being allowed to spread into  
her realm did not sound too enticing a prospect, nor did the  
possibility of a steady flow of invading dungeoneers.  
Unfortunately, Fear had also soundly demonstrated that with his  
powers augmented by technology he could destroy her without too much  
difficulty. He had her over the proverbial barrel.  
But she wasn't going to just hand over the keys to her kingdom  
without some kind of resistance. "What's in it for me?"  
"You'll live to see another dawn, for one thing," answered Fear,  
"which given your present precarious circumstances could be seen as a  
real step up. Also..."  
"Yes?"  
"I own a few items that might be of interest to you," suggested Fear.  
"Like?"  
"Well," said Fear. "I don't spend my entire time in the Dungeon just  
looking for brats to swat. I have the occasional habit of retrieving  
quest objects myself. I've found the extra power they give me most  
advantageous. As could you."  
Aesandre's eyes now lit up avariciously. "Keep talking."  
"I'll give you the Shield of Justice," offered Fear. "Only to look  
after you understand, not to keep.But it should provide you with some  
extra defence against me, just in case you're worried that I'll double-  
cross you. Well? Do we have a deal?"  
How could she say no?  
  
* * *  
  
The news could hardly have been described as good. It was hard to say  
if it was especially bad either, but it definitely wasn't good. It was  
a month since Merlin's passing and Treguard had arrived at the ruins of  
Dungarth in response to a summons he had received from Velda, who said  
that she had news to give him. Her message had been less than explicit  
about what it was, only that it had something to do with Mogdred's  
former servants.  
The fact that she described them as former servants of Mogdred meant  
that the news couldn't be completely bad, as even by the strange  
inverted logic of the elfin kind, it probably meant that Mogdred  
couldn't have resurfaced.  
Sadly, Mogdred's former servants were quite capable of making a lot  
of trouble in their own right. So Treguard, Pickle and Eadric had  
wasted no time setting off on horseback for Dungarth, and arrived in  
less than a day.  
When they got there, they went through the tradition elfin formality  
of looking around for Velda, calling her name in frustration, and then  
jumping halfway out of their skins when she suddenly stepped out of her  
hiding place and said, "You lot took your time."  
Treguard decided to forego the rest of the tradition and not bother  
developing a minor coronary problem from the shock. "We needed every  
minute, it's a long walk," he replied testily.  
"True," admitted Velda. She gave Eadric a disdainful look. "Who is  
this?"  
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" suggested Pickle.  
"I don't know him."  
"You didn't know me when you found me in Anwin Wood," Treguard  
pointed out, "but you still spoke to me."  
"There was no one else to speak for you on that occasion," sniffed  
Velda.  
Damn, there was that elfin logic again!  
"My name's Eadric," said the boy proffering a hand that Velda looked  
at like it was a two week-dead salmon. Eadric shrugged and withdrew the  
hand.  
"What did you want to tell us, Velda?" asked Treguard, now in a hurry  
to get to the point. "You made it sound urgent."  
"It is."  
"So?"  
"There is a new leader," said Velda darkly.  
"A what?" asked Eadric.  
"A new leader," repeated Velda.  
"For who?"  
"For them." Velda looked at each of them in turn, sternly. "You know  
who they are."  
Treguard nodded. "Yes we know who they are. What we don't know is who  
he is." He considered for a moment and then decided to be politically  
correct. "Or who she is."  
Velda looked at him. Being an elf, she couldn't understand the need  
mortals had for differentiating social groupings, especially when they  
could be so maddeningly imprecise about more important matters. She  
decided not to try asking about it though. Every time she'd tried to  
embark on a conversation like that with a mortal in the past, she  
always found that she couldn't understand a word of it. "I observed him  
journeying South from the territory you call Winteria, the old Pictish  
kingdom, in the company of those loathsome goblins. He is a sorcerer of  
the most impure magic."  
"Impure, you say?" puzzled Treguard.  
"Oh yes," confirmed Velda. "He is most different from the one you  
call Mogdred. Most different. He appears to understand things so  
unnatural, so completely alien to reality, that I shudder."  
"Alien?"  
"Things of no life!" stressed Velda, suddenly sounding angry. "Things  
that should not be able to move of their own volition, but can. They  
are not alive, they are not even spellbound, and yet they move and work  
at his behest. This doolie is foul, an abomination."  
"Who is he?" asked Eadric.  
"He is the foulness my people prophesied centuries ago," hissed  
Velda, "a foulness that we always knew would emerge from among you  
mortals. A techno-sorcerer."  
"A what-what what-what-what?" asked Eadric politely.  
"A techno-sorcerer," repeated Velda, just a little tersely this time.  
Eadric asked her to elaborate a little, and Treguard decided, wisely,  
to ignore the ensuing tide of rushed explanations, double takes,  
unpleasant looks, and irritable put-downs that the conversation soon  
descended into. He looked over toward the shattered ruins of the  
castle's main keep, and thought unhappily about what he had heard. A  
techno-sorcerer? He had of such a mythical figure from Merlin - the  
idea that any wizard or witch might in theory use technology to augment  
mystical powers. And now there was one at large in England?  
"What was he doing in Winteria?" demanded Treguard suddenly, cutting  
off the stream of inconsequential bickering that had broken out between  
the others.  
"I do not know, Dungeon Master," replied Velda. "I only saw him  
passing this way by chance. All I can say is that it looked like he  
must have been there for some time. I can't imagine what he was doing  
there but it must have been large scale."  
"And your sure he's taken over from Mogdred?" asked Pickle.  
Velda looked him in the eye with firm certainty. "Positive."  
  
* * *  
  
"I'm 'ere about the job," said the visitor. "They say you need  
someone with experience trainin' goblins? Well 'ere I am."  
Lord Fear needed a rigorous, heavily considered selection process of  
precise scrutiny for choosing his new recruits and best to start it off  
with this one. He looked the man up and down with an expert eye (not  
bad going considering his eyes were only a month old), and shook his  
head at the ghastly Hessian rags he was dressed in, the unsightly  
coarseness of his skin, the prominent misshapen patch covering his left  
eye and the revoltingly deep scar running below it along his cheek from  
the corner of his mouth.  
"What a hideous, ugly apparition of the human spirit you are,"  
sneered Fear. "You're hired! Congratulations... what's your name  
again?"  
"Skarkill, yer Fearship," answered the man, beaming horribly at the  
ease with which he had achieved new employment.  
"Yes, well I'm sure that'll be fine," replied Fear, only half-  
listening. He turned and resumed sitting on his throne. "It can be  
harmful having minions with an identity," he continued, "but I can  
promise you, try and use it too much and you'll find that I can be a  
lot more harmful than that."  
"I'll keep that in mind, yer Fearship," promised Skarkill.  
"Good." Fear tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne. "Well,  
tall, dark and gruesome, I've got an early task for you as my new  
goblin master."  
"Some'ing to do with goblins?" suggested Skarkill shrewdly.  
Fear gave him one of those looks. "It's always reassuring to have a  
man who knows his job on my side." He rolled his eyes. "Of course  
something to do with goblins, nincompoop! That's what I hired you for."  
Fear leaned forward slightly in his throne. "You and your two protégés,  
Grippa and Rhark, are going on a little journey, Skarkill."  
  
* * *  
  
The latest battle with the French had been successful, but not  
without its costs to King John. The Norman barons had managed to rally  
a large enough army to defend East Anglia, and the French force had  
been forced back to the coast, but with heavy English losses.  
Furthermore, the barons had only agreed to confront the invaders on  
the understanding that in return the King would add three more pledges  
to the forthcoming Charter. It now seemed to be getting to the point  
that the Magna Carta was going to leave him with virtually no authority  
at all.  
He and his knights crossed the drawbridge into the palace courtyard,  
where they dismounted. The King's seneschal was waiting here, as would  
be expected. He looked very concerned, which wouldn't be. The King  
cursed mentally. Not more problems, surely? Couldn't he at least arrive  
home, change out of this battered armour, and have something to eat  
before someone came up to him and gave him more things to worry about?  
He felt tired. Tired of fighting, tired of arguments, tired of bad  
news... in fact, tired of being tired.  
"Sire!" cried the seneschal, bowing to his lord and master. "While  
you were away gallantly fighting the French..."  
"Either tell me that you've found that renegade stable lad," snapped  
the King, "or tell me nothing."  
In response the seneschal fell silent, and remained silent. Yes, it  
was more bad news then.  
"All right," sighed the King wearily, "tell me."  
"Sire," the seneschal tried again, "in your absence, the palace has  
been raided!"  
"Raided?!" cried the King incredulously. Oh no, he thought, it was  
those blasted Scots again! Any time the English were trying to defend  
themselves from someone else, you could count on the Scots taking  
advantage and attacking while English backs were turned. And the Scots  
called themselves brave...  
"Yes sire," continued the seneschal, breaking this typically  
insufferable train of thought. "By goblins."  
The King turned and looked at the seneschal in surprise. "Goblins?"  
  
* * *  
  
"You idiot, Skarkill!" thundered Lord Fear. They were only words, and  
had almost no physical presence of course, but they still had all the  
force of a thousand tumbling rocks.  
Skarkill was so taken aback by them that he almost fell over. "Y-yer  
Fearship?" he managed to stutter.  
"Have you any idea what you've done?"  
"I..." This was a tricky question. Skarkill had been fairly sure that  
he had known exactly what he was doing when he raided the palace, and  
had even prided himself on a debut job well done. But now, having  
returned home with the boon for his new master, and being rewarded for  
it with nothing but a storm of fury, Skarkill was left wondering if he  
had done something wrong. Not the shrewdest question he could have  
asked in the face of such obvious rage, but being Skarkill, he went and  
asked it anyway. "'Ave I done something wrong, yer Fearship?"  
Fear was so amazed by the stupidity of this question he spent almost  
twenty seconds stammering. "I-I... hah... I-... you... I... I... I..  
you... I...? I... wha-...? Ha... Ha... I..." He took a much needed deep  
breath, then let it out accompanied by a string of expletives that  
could have won the Booker Prize (that is if the Booker Prize existed  
back then - and if they ran an "Elaborately Creative Invention of  
Obscenely Biological Language in Children's Literature" section). "Do  
you really think," he continued afterwards, "that I was calling you an  
idiot for the sheer social comment of it?!"  
"I don't understand, yer Fearship," protested Skarkill, genuinely  
perplexed. "I gots the Sword of Freedom for you, jus' like you tells me  
to..."  
"And thank badness you did!" growled Fear. "At least you got  
something right. Unfortunately, Skarkill, everything you've got wrong's  
defeated half the point of getting the Sword in the first place."  
"I'm sorry, boss," answered Skarkill, "but I still doesn't understand  
what I did wrong."  
Fear sighed, and decided to calm down enough to explain in the kind  
of slow, measured, pre-adolescent language that people of Skarkill's  
mental agility required. "You were supposed to steal the Sword," he  
said dangerously, "so that I could plant it in Knightmare Castle. Then  
we could go to the King and tell him that Treguard had stolen it! That  
way the King and the barons would have left him out of the Magna Carta  
negotiations."  
"Oh I see," nodded Skarkill, who altogether did not. "But, you've got  
the Sword. You can still do it can't you?"  
"There's no point, dimwit!" shouted Fear. "You walking brain clot,  
haven't you got it into your head yet? You raided the palace in broad  
daylight! Practically everyone saw you and the goblins running away  
with the Sword." Fear thumped the arm of his throne in frustration.  
"Everybody knows that Treguard wouldn't use goblins to do anything. In  
fact I'm beginning to see why he doesn't use Goblin Masters either!"  
Fear got to his feet, walked over to Skarkill and poked a painful  
finger into his chest. "Now you tell me, Skarkill, what with Mogdred's  
past use of goblin hunting patrols against Dungeoneers, and your  
present use of goblins to steal Swords, you tell me... how long's it  
going to take the King to figure out who really stole it?"  
  
* * *  
  
Treguard's arrival at the palace in person caused a lot of surprise  
among the other barons. It was rare for the Lord of Dunshelm to enter  
the presence of the Anglo-Norman aristocracy. An honour perhaps,  
although they were too afraid and suspicious of his rumoured powers as  
a warrior and sorcerous Dungeon Master to appreciate it.  
Most astonishing of all was that King John agreed to meet him  
immediately.  
The atmosphere in the throne room as the two old rivals, one a brutal  
Norman autocrat, the other a fearsome Saxon warrior, came face to face  
for the first time, was coldly formal.  
"His name is Lord Fear, sire," stated Treguard. "He is the one who  
has stolen the great treasure. I can't say for sure where he came from,  
but he is the heir to Mogdred's legacy."  
"Mogdred's?" said the King. He looked downcast, then nodded. "Yes,  
Lord Dunshelm, I suspected as much. Only Mogdred would employ goblins  
in such a bold scheme."  
"Mogdred is dead, sire," answered Treguard, to which the King looked  
surprised. "I spent years trying to contain and defeat him, and I  
finally succeeded. Now another has risen in his place." Treguard dared  
to take a step toward the King, drawing a few wary looks from the other  
courtiers present. But they remained calm when he did no more than  
that. "Sire, I beg you," said Treguard more urgently, "you must surely  
concede the point now. The interests of neither Mogdred nor Fear nor  
any who serve them are your interests. Nor are they the interests of  
England. All these years I've fought to suppress those rogues, even by  
defying your wishes. Now surely you can see why. Surely you can see  
that they will betray you..."  
The King got to his feet. "Enough, Dunshelm!" he ordered mightily.  
Everyone in the court looked alarmed, fearing that he would, with  
typical volatility, start a fresh round of executions. But it seemed he  
would not. Instead he looked tired again as he stepped forward and  
placed a hand on Treguard's shoulder. "Yes, I see it, my friend. I  
think I have always seen it in fact." He looked miserable. "I just  
didn't see anyone else I could turn to. He had power and power was what  
I needed..."  
"Forgive me for contradicting you, sire," Treguard interjected  
firmly, "but you are quite wrong. It was never power that you lacked.  
For better or for worse, you are King, you have power in abundance.  
What you need is the loyalty of your subjects, and unfortunately, using  
Mogdred's treachery to make them fear you was never going to give you  
that. Only their hatred."  
"Am I so hated, Dunshelm?"  
Treguard's only response was to look at him, but it said more than a  
thousand words. The King looked down at his own feet weakly. He just  
didn't seem to have the energy left to get angry.  
"Your father was a great King who treated all his subjects, Norman or  
Saxon, with equal justice," continued Treguard. "Your brother was a  
King of enormous courage who would treat all good men of the Christian  
faith with respect. You must rule as they did and heal the rifts in  
your Kingdom."  
"Yes," nodded the King. "Yes. And I must learn from their example.  
Dunshelm... Treguard. Will you help me? Will you give me your...  
loyalty?"  
Treguard smiled sadly. "Sire, if you or any of your Norman  
predecessors had asked us that as your father did, you would have  
received that loyalty as you earned it. Instead, you tried to enslave  
us, to coerce us, and now you must wrangle over the Magna Carta, which  
will force you to earn our obedience." Treguard nodded. "I shall help  
you as you help me to defend the North from the Scots and from Lord  
Fear. I only hope for your sake, for all our sakes, that it is not too  
late to start."  
The King surprised himself by giving Treguard a look of absolute  
respect instead of, as he had been expecting before meeting him,  
absolute terror. He offered Treguard his hand, which was accepted.  
  
* * *  
  
Most of the barons noticed that the King was shaking. There was  
nothing unusual in that, to be quite honest, but it was still highly  
amusing whenever they saw it happen.  
Folly also noticed, but he was one of the few who weren't having  
trouble keeping a straight face. In fact he felt slightly melancholy.  
As one of the few Saxons at court, and as a result being one of its  
most destitute, he would have had every right to hate King John. But,  
even though he would have been embarrassed to admit it, he had actually  
developed a soft spot for his Liege in the time he had worked for him.  
Folly had grown to understand him far better, even to feel a little  
sorry for him in his fearful isolation. And in fairness to the King, he  
had started to treat Folly rather better as time had passed.  
As such, on this momentous day in history, Folly looked on with  
genuine sympathy as, pale with humiliation and shaking in quiet fear of  
the opportunistic warlords about him, the King finally scrawled his  
signature on the Great Charter of English Liberty.  
It was the fifteenth of June in the year 1215, and Runnymede was a  
busy place. Here at Runnymede Magna Carta had become a reality. Here at  
Runnymede real limitations on the power of Kings had become a reality.  
And most of all, here at Runnymede the total humiliation and  
emasculation of John as a King of England was complete.  
But what choice did he have? He could no longer hope to govern  
England without the full co-operation of his barons, and this was the  
price that they demanded.  
In truth, most of the limitations that the Charter was imposing on  
John's power were very mild, and were largely confined to taxation  
controls, but it was still a concession that no other monarch in  
Christendom had ever had to make, and that John should be the first  
made his flesh burn with embarrassment.  
And in a strange way, Folly did feel a pang of pity for the man.  
But there were other matters to attend to now, and these were matters  
that Folly, and indeed most of the people he counted as friends, had  
long cherished. In person, the jester carried forward the scroll to the  
table at the centre of the room and presented it to King John. The  
King, usually so full of Norman anger, accepted it calmly, opened it,  
read its contents with elaborate briefness, and then added his  
signature to it. He then handed it back to Folly.  
"Tell Dunshelm that I wish him the greatest of luck, Folly," John  
ordered with quiet, but genuine, magnanimity.  
Folly bowed. "Yes, my Liege."  
Folly turned and walked to the corner of the room where Treguard was  
stood, accompanied by Motley, Mellisandre, Pickle and Eadric. Folly  
performed another low bow and handed over the scroll to the Dungeon  
Master.  
"Here it is," smiled Folly proudly. "You are now Governor of the  
North of England. The Knightmare Challenge is legal once more, and the  
Northguard are re-established as the first line of defence against all  
opposition posed by Lord Fear." He shrugged. "Ironic really. All these  
years it was the home of an illegal military operation. Now Knightmare  
Castle is home to what power the King has in the North."  
"So, we're now among the powers-that-be are we?" mused Treguard. "I  
like the sound of that." He smiled and gave Folly a hearty clap on the  
back. "Thank you, Folly, I always knew it'd be a good idea letting the  
King employ you."  
"Keep your voice down a bit, Master," said Folly, finger to mouth.  
"He's only stood over there, we don't want him getting suspicious, do  
we?" Folly glanced over his shoulder, then back at Treguard. "He wishes  
you luck with the war against Fear by the way."  
"Kind of him." Treguard looked less than moved.  
"Oh he's not such a bad an old stick when you get to know him,"  
insisted Folly.  
"Isn't he?" asked Motley, amazed.  
"No, no," Folly assured him, "quite decent as a stick. Just rotten as  
a King." He giggled happily at his own joke. Nobody else did, but they  
didn't seem to mind it either. The occasion had no room for sour  
humour, even if it had some for poor humour.  
Gretel arrived, carrying a tray of goblets filled with red wine. They  
all helped themselves eagerly.  
"To the future," proclaimed Treguard, raising his goblet.  
"The future," echoed the others, raising their own goblets.  
"To an England at last united as England," added Treguard, "and not  
just a minor French colony."  
"England," chimed in the others.  
"And to Merlin," he added more sombrely. "May his spirit rest  
comfortably, wherever it is."  
"To Merlin."  
They all drank deeply. It might have been a trick of the light, it  
might just have been the intoxication of such a fine Gascon wine, but  
as he drank from it, Treguard's eyes gazed into the goblet and focused  
on tiny points of light from the torches on the walls reflected across  
the crimson surface of the wine. And just for a moment he thought that  
he saw the flames flare into the shape of a face. The face of an old  
man with a tangled grey-white beard, the eyes full of a child's energy  
and the spark of mischief, the lines of the face full of an old man's  
wisdom and the spark of knowledge. And the face was smiling.  
It was only a brief image, and it was gone as soon as Treguard saw  
it. But very quietly, Treguard still murmured, "Keep smiling, Merlin."  
Mellisandre looked at him in surprise. "Did you say something?"  
  
Treguard looked back at her and smiled gently. "It was just something  
I had to say." He paused and then added, "I don't think I'll ever have  
to say it again." 


	5. The Chrysalis Epilogue

THE CHRYSALIS  
EPILOGUE  
  
It was never going to take King John long to go back on his word of  
course - and it didn't. In fact, at John's request, the Magna Carta  
was annulled by the Pope less than three months after it was signed, to  
the great anger of not just Treguard but virtually every English  
subject. Just as Mogdred had predicted however, this was the King's  
undoing, for he effectively united the Normans and Saxons in their  
common interest of resisting him. They would never trust him again.  
The King spent the remainder of 1215 fighting against a rebel army  
led by his own barons, while still trying to hold off the invading  
armies of Louis VIII of France. In fact by May 1216, much of England  
was effectively ruled by the French King, the first successful  
incursion by France since 1066. However, the English barons soon found  
Louis' rule even less to their taste than John's, and internal  
opposition to the King declined. In any case, King John only lived  
until October, dying of a violent spasm of dysentry, and was succeeded  
by his nine-year old son, Henry III. All opposition melted away and  
England united to drive out the French invaders for good.  
Their reward was the re-issue of Magna Carta and ironically, England  
would in the centuries that followed become even more powerful in its  
own right (under the rule of the Plantagenets) than the Norman-Angevin  
realm that had once enslaved it (under the Plantagents' own ancestors).  
In the shorter term, Treguard and the Northguard, now referring to  
themselves simply as the Powers-That-Be, became the new King's  
guardians of the North. The Opposition led by Lord Fear would grow in  
power against them however, and Treguard's long struggle to bring  
justice and peace to the North of England would be a long and gruelling  
one, made all the more difficult by the Dungeon's ongoing expansion  
further and further across the Kingdom, which allowed Fear to spread  
his menace further afield than ever before.  
It would be a very long time indeed before Treguard would finally  
discover Lord Fear's hybrid origins, and thus see the final piece of  
Mildread's premonition click into place. During that time, Treguard  
would continue to employ Dungeoneers from the far future in his  
struggle to contain Lord Fear. As before, it would be with only minimal  
success - the key to defeat after defeat after defeat had indeed been  
found in victory.  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------  
------------  
------------------------------------------------------------------------  
------------  
  
NOTES ABOUT "THE CHRYSALIS"  
  
I first thought of the idea of writing "The Chrysalis" quite a few  
years ago as I'd long felt that there were serious discontinuities  
between earlier and later seasons of Knightmare that needed tidying up,  
or at least explaining away. Most prominent among these was the  
introduction around the fifth season of a clear division of allegiances  
among the characters who appeared in the show i.e. The Powers-That-Be  
versus the Opposition. Although there was nothing wrong with this idea  
in itself, I'd always regarded the implementation of it as a bit of a  
botched 'retcon', in that it came more or less out of nowhere without  
any clear explanation for it, and yet was now one of the most central  
aspects of the programme. Beyond this also lies the problem of  
introducing a new central villain, Lord Fear, again completely out of  
nowhere, and without any explanation for who he was, where he came  
from, and why he hadn't previously bothered to show his face. By the  
same measure, there was no real explanation for why two previous key  
players in Knightmare, Merlin and Mogdred, had completely disappeared.  
Brother Mace did mention in season five that Merlin was no longer  
present in the Dungeon (the only direct reference made to his departure  
in the series as far as I can remember), but offered no further details  
than that. "The Chrysalis" offers, in my optimistic opinion, the most  
workable explanation for all these omissions.  
  
My reference to Pickle as half-elf-half-imp is just the obvious way  
to resolve the long-standing discrepancy between the TV series and the  
books - in the TV series Pickle's an elf, in the books he's an imp.  
Yes, it's an easy way out, but at least it's better than just trying to  
ignore it the way most people have in the past.  
  
Most of the historical background information in "The Chrysalis" is  
in fact very accurate. The unsympathetic view of Richard I ('Coeur de  
Lion'), for instance, which is in stark contrast to his legend, is  
based on the indisputable fact that, for all his courage and military  
genius, he was a ruthless and greedy killer. In effect he overthrew his  
father, Henry II, and at times he behaved barbarically on Crusade -  
the massacre he ordered at Acre for instance was a genuine historical  
event. He was also a neglectful absentee monarch - far from being the  
glorious hero of the medieval English monarchy that he has usually been  
proclaimed to be, he only spent around six months of his ten year reign  
in England, and on one occasion even said that he would have happily  
sold London if he was given a high enough bid for it. Like his Norman  
forebears, he was first and foremost a French Duke who saw England as  
nothing more than a usable possession. (Indeed he had far more in  
common with King John than distinctions from him.)  
  
The information around Magna Carta is largely correct, although I did  
take one or two liberties with timing, most noticeably by indicating  
that the first invasion of England by King Louis VIII was about a year  
earlier than in reality.  
  
The story is set between the Knightmare novellas "Fortress of  
Assassins" and "The Sorcerer's Isle", written by Dave Morris. It is  
largely consistent with Morris' first four Knightmare books ("Fortress"  
even includes the occasional mention of the early developments of Magna  
Carta that this story picks up on), although there is one minor  
contradiction - early in "The Sorcerer's Isle" it is indicated that  
Treguard and Pickle had been present in Acre in the Holy Land from 1211  
to 1216, and had not been back to England at any stage during that  
time. However "The Chrysalis" is set in 1215, and at no stage in the  
story do Treguard or Pickle appear anywhere EXCEPT England. I decided  
on taking this route as King John and Magna Carta were a key part of  
the plot that I needed Treguard to be present for. In any case I felt  
that if Treguard were in the Holy Land for all those years, there would  
be no room for the Knightmare Challenge during that time, which doesn't  
look likely on watching the TV series, and wherever possible I like to  
try and keep my stories consistent with both the TV shows AND the books  
(though not the Yearling titles - see below). To reconcile this, it's  
not much of a stretch to simply assume that Treguard and Pickle return  
to the Holy Land at some time after "The Chrysalis" to take up their  
misadventure with "Erica and Launcelot".  
  
Further to this, a rough guide to continuity as I see it could be  
taken as follows...  
  
The first book of Knightmare is set several years before the first  
two seasons of the TV series. The misleadingly-named "The Labyrinths of  
Fear" is set between seasons two and three. After season three (around  
the year 1211), Treguard starts his mini-Crusade in the Middle East in  
"Fortress of Assassins", and returns to England late in the year 1214  
for season four on TV (explaining why the Dungeon had changed so much  
since the previous season). In the immediate aftermath of that is "The  
Chrysalis". After this he returns to Acre for "The Sorcerer's Isle"  
then returns to England once more for season five. Where the Yearling  
titles would fit in, I'm not so sure. It's not that I can't figure it  
out - they're clearly set at some point during the last three seasons  
of the TV show - it's just they're such a departure in style and plot  
from the previous books that I don't accept them as canonical, so I've  
never bothered trying to be more specific. (Not that anything I've  
written so far actually contradicts them.)  
  
Incidentally, my previous fanfic, "Theatre of Dreams" is set about  
seven years after the last season of Knightmare. If you should read it,  
note the bit where Merlin mentions Lord Fear building his power "In a  
way which none could ever imagine", and that he doubted that "Lord Fear  
could profit from Mogdred's downfall." Before anyone asks, these are  
indeed references to the events of "The Chrysalis". As I wrote "Dreams"  
several years before "Chrys", it goes without saying that I was setting  
the backward references up deliberately - and it took quite a bit of  
doing to get the pattern right!  
  
Merlin refers to himself as "Leilocen" (pronounced Lie-lo-Kun) when  
he is praying in episode 2. This is not merely another of the countless  
names that Merlin was reputed to possess, but his REAL name. It's one  
of the great ironies of the Arthurian legend that Merlin, one of its  
most fantastic and other-worldly figures, is in fact one of the few  
characters in the whole story whose historical existence is supported  
by some solid evidence. Leilocen was a sixth century bard who went mad  
after witnessing a terrible battle between two large armies (one  
probably Pictish, the other probably Romano-British) near the forest of  
Caledon (which was probably somewhere near the modern border between  
Scotland and England), and fled into the wilderness. When he finally  
returned to human society he began making wild and obscure prophecies  
(on which were based the infamous "Phrophetiae Merlini") to anyone who  
would listen, which admittedly was not very many. Nevertheless it was  
from these that Merlin gained his reputation in Celtic mythology as a  
seer and a wizard.  
  
The story in the prologue of the Talisman of Fortune being retrieved  
by a dungeoneer refers, of course, to Julian Smith (now Jason Karl) and  
friends' successful quest in series two, only the second ever winners  
of the Knightmare Challenge. Also, you may notice that Aesandre being  
bribed by Lord Fear with the Shield of Justice in the third episode is  
a rather handy bit of retcon, as it sets up Ben's winning team from  
season five taking it back from her - although how Barry's team in  
season seven end up retrieving it as well is a bit more difficult to  
explain away, but seeing that they never bothered to do so on the TV  
show, I won't try for the time being either. Likewise, Skarkill steals  
the Sword of Freedom from the King so that Julie's team can steal it  
back (also in season seven)!  
  
- Martin Odoni, March 2003. 


End file.
